


On Ice, Yuri!!!

by octothorpe



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Swap, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon Compliant, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Mild Angst, Role Reversal, Slow Burn, VictUuri, Victuri, Vikturi, are these appropriate tags, older! yuuri, reverse au, viktuuri, why do we have so many pairing names, younger! Victor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 62,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octothorpe/pseuds/octothorpe
Summary: Russia’s rising star, Victor Nikiforov, age twenty-three, has just finished his first Grand Prix Final and is gearing up for Serious Training for the next season.Russia’s rising star, Victor Nikiforov, age twenty-three, is currently standing naked in the Yu-Topia onsen, back arched, silver hair flowing, with one arm outstretched toward a very bewildered Yuuri Katsuki.“Yuuri! Hi!”ORThe weirdly-canon-but-not-really Reverse AU.





	1. Easy as Pirozhki!! The Grand Prix Final of Tears

Four-time champion and skating legend, Yuuri Katsuki, age twenty-seven, has just secured the gold at this year’s Grand Prix Final.

 ~~Four-time~~ Five-time champion and skating legend, Yuuri Katsuki, age twenty-seven, is currently having a meltdown at this year’s Grand Prix Final.

Yuuri Katsuki’s winning routine always involved the following steps: receive the gold medal and bouquet, smile at the cameras, and graciously thank his supporters. But instead of participating in the after-podium charade, he finds himself at emergency step number four: take refuge in a bathroom stall to quell the beginnings of an anxiety attack.

Objectively, there is no reason for this—no reason for him to be doubled over and gripping his knees as he struggles to yoga-breathe his impending anxiety attack away.

This was his fifth consecutive GPF gold. He _had_ won, but just barely—a marginal difference of .10 points separated him and silver medalist, Christophe Giacometti. A mere .10 points; this meant a wrong flick of the wrist could’ve had Giacometti in first place and him in second. And in Yuuri’s eyes, this meant it wasn’t a proper win, it was a fluke.

Still, it’s the win that cements his title as the five-time champion, as _The_ Skating Legend.

Objectively, he _should_ be happy.

But his sister called him moments before his free skate and told him his dog died.

“He…he didn’t make it. The vet couldn’t do much because—because of all the damage,” his older sister, Mari, choked out, her voice tinny and cracking over the phone.

Yuuri stood frozen in the middle of the empty corridor, his phone clutched tight in one hand, the laces of his skates wrapped around the palm of the other. In the stillness, he would have been able to hear the echoes of the crowd and the noise of the competition. But all he could register was the faint static feedback from his phone and Mari’s broken breathing.

“Yuuri?” Mari said after a long beat of silence. “Are you okay—are you still there?

“Sorry, I—” Yuuri fought to take a breath. He let it out, slowly. “Was he in pain?”

“No, the vet gave him something,” Mari said. There was a soft sigh on her end of the line.

“Was he scared?”

“We were with him the whole time,” Mari said, her tone reassuring, gentle. She chuckled weakly. “He…wagged his tail and did that little sniffing thing he does before he sleeps…and then he closed his eyes. And we said goodbye.”

“Okay, okay,” Yuuri said quietly, ignoring the wetness on his lashes and focusing on way the laces of his skates bit into his palm. “Okay.”

“We’re making him a little shrine when we get home.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri forced himself to reply. “That sounds nice. Mari-nee—” His phone buzzed in his ear and he pulled it away to check. It was a text from his coach: _RINKSIDE NOW PLEASE. YOUR TURN IN 10MIN._

His knees buckled slightly when he willed himself to walk the long corridor, back to the rink. “I have to go.” He said softly. He blinked to clear the water from his eyes. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I’m sorry, Yuuri. I’m _so_ sorry.”

Yuuri didn’t say goodbye. “Me too,” he said instead, before he ended the call.

That was his last memory of any conscious action. Everything after that he did on autopilot, like he had taken a step back and watched things as they happened to him, as they happened around him. His heart was a heavy stone in his chest, and the grief washed the world into a blur. He didn’t even know when he let go of his phone, or how he put his skates on, or got to the rink.

He stepped onto the ice someone else. He wasn’t the talented champion who conquered the skating world, because he was just a heartbroken little boy who lost his best friend.

Performing well under his circumstances was a testament to his training and twenty years of dedication to the sport, but anyone who was really watching saw the noticeable droop in his demeanor and how it resulted in a sloppy execution.

Somewhere in the blur, after overshooting his jumps and delivering a lackluster step sequence, Yuuri thought, _this is it_. This was where his career ended. There was no coming back from this; he wasn’t earning enough points. He registered glimpses of the lights, the ice, the crowd, and a phantom flash of the years-old adrenaline response to performing. It used to excite him, make him feel good enough to keep pushing through his instincts to run away from everything, and run toward it. But now he could only think of how he was currently failing, how he’s not sure if he wants all of this—how he’s not worthy of all of it anymore.

Halfway through the second part of his program, he was already running a meticulous assessment of his mistakes: the over rotation on his quad flip, the lacking grace in his Ina Bauer, the touch down after his quad Salchow, the stiff free leg in his combination spin.

At the final pose, Yuuri had decided: it was time to plan his retirement.

Now, he’s staring at his shoes in the bathroom stall, gripping his knees so hard he expects bruises tomorrow.

He draws a shuddering breath in an attempt to calm down. What were those breathing exercises again? Ah—inhale for five seconds, hold for five seconds, and exhale for five seconds. On his second round he fails to stifle a hitch in his breath before it develops into a sob. 

Receiving the gold medal was such a surprise that Yuuri had almost backed away when one of the officials moved to put it around his neck. His performance for the free skate didn’t do justice to what the piece should have been and he didn’t live up to his usual standard. It was a dishonor to the sport and Yuuri feels undeserving of the win. The medal was still on him, the ribbon looped around his neck like a noose. He pulls it off and shoves it into his pocket.

Yuuri drops his head between his hands, allowing himself a moment of surrender, grief sinking deeper in him with each fractured sob.  He forces himself to revisit the breathing exercises. Again. Inhale for five, hold for—

He’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

Rather, several kicks slammed against the cubicle in an incessant demand for his attention. A welcomed—albeit rude—distraction from his pending anxiety attack.

“It’s occupied,” Yuuri offers apologetically in what he hopes is an even tone.

The response is yet another kick to the door, a solid thud that makes the heavy red plastic jump on its hinges.

“It’s occupied!” He says firmly, realizing with a sinking feeling that someone might have followed him to the bathroom. Did they hear him crying?

The voice that speaks is vaguely familiar. “This is  _un-ne-ces-sary_. Out of there, now. The press is looking to interview you.” The delivery is brusque, syllables gritted together in slanted English, but the message comes across clearly: pull yourself together.

There’s a short pause as Yuuri gathers himself. He leaves the stall to thank the speaker, but the man—boy?—is already at the exit. He only manages to get a flash of blonde hair before the door swings shut.

At least the anxiety attack is gone. For now.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, the competition and its succeeding obligations are dealt with, and Yuuri starts to register the noise around him and the feel of his limbs in real time. With the other skaters and coaches, Yuuri makes his way outside. They’re all headed toward their respective rides when they’re assaulted with a wall of flashes. A small group of people crowds Yuuri and a bundle of microphones are shoved into his face. The skaters call them "The Vultures,” a bunch of less professional, more invasive reporters whose life-goals seem to include terrorizing sports celebrities in an effort to get the latest scoop.

“Mr. Katsuki! You didn’t seem your usual self today! Why is th—”

“—Mr. Katsuki, how do you feel about your performance—”

“—Mr. Katsuki, what can you tell us about your plans for next—”

“—Forget that! Tell us about your plans for your  _love life_ —”

On any other day, Yuuri would’ve taken the time to patiently tend to their fervent scavenging, but not today. With news of his dog's passing, and the disappointment of his performance, everything else that demanded his attention compounded into overwhelming suffocation.

Thankfully, Celestino Cialdini, Yuuri’s coach, interferes. He clamps one arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and brandishes his other arm at the press. “We have no comments at this time! No comment! Please wait for the press conference.”

Yuuri politely ducks his head in apology and lets Celestino steer him toward the cab. It’s at this point that one of the younger skaters decides to abandon his lecturing coach to elbow his way through the throng of reporters.

Yuuri and Celestino don’t get more than a few steps away when Yuuri hears someone call his name—his first name; an unusual practice with The Vultures, despite their uncouth habits. He whips around instinctively.

“Yuuri! Hi!” The culprit, blatantly ignoring the protests of his coach, manages to squeeze himself into the small space between Yuuri’s face and the microphones. He smiles up at Yuuri with excessive enthusiasm. “Commemorative photo? Yes?”

It seems like there’s a small pause in time as Yuuri takes in the bright eyes and long silver hair. He wonders vaguely if this is the same kid in the bathroom. The accent sounds the same—no, this one’s way too chipper. The moment lasts half a second before a surge of questions jolt him back into the clamor. He turns away from the eager…fan? Competitor? Who is this kid again?

“Sorry, I uh—have to go—” Yuuri is ushered into the cab. He watches the muted chaos of reporters regrouping around another skater as the cab pulls away from the venue.

The silver-haired kid looks crestfallen and resigns himself to being dragged away by his coach.

“So!” A loud voice pipes up next to his ear.

Yuuri jumps at the sound and almost hits his head on the window. He groans, collapsing in on himself and clutching the front of his jersey.

“Phichit! You can’t keep doing that.” Yuuri turns to face the man next to him in the backseat, Phichit Chulanont, fellow GPF competitor and top skater of Thailand.

A Halloween incident in 2013 encouraged Phichit to make a habit of scaring the living daylight out of him. For Phichit, it was funny. For Yuuri, it was not. Really, this is way too much excitement in one day.

“And a hello to you too, mister,” Phichit teases. “Seriously though, I got in the car at the same time you did so that one was on you!”

Yuuri chuckles weakly in response.

He met Phichit twice in one day. The first was at an elective language class at the University—Yuuri was a senior and Phichit was a freshman—where they were made to partner up and practice Spanish phrases. The second was at the skating rink, where they accidentally collided during group stretching. A few exchanges of “dónde está la biblioteca” were all it took to build a foundation of friendship. They have been inseparable ever since.

Phichit’s tone changes, airing on the side of concern. “First the over-rotated jumps, the not-so-you step sequence, and then you’re nowhere to be found after podium—you’ve been really out of it today, you okay?”

“No, yeah I’m fine. I—” Yuuri is desperate to change the topic, he’s not ready to get into that just yet. “—listen, who was that kid? The one with the silver hair?”

“You mean  _Victor_   _Nikiforov_?!” Phichit says, as though it’s a complete crime against humanity to accidentally forget their fellow competitor.

“Oh, right,” Yuuri replies, tilting his head back to affirm in a slow nod. Right—the hair should have been the (blatantly obvious) hint. It’s Nikiforov’s trademark after all.

“Don’t tell me you forgot! Wasn’t it  _you_ who said—“ Phichit sets his mouth in a grim line and sits ramrod straight, his shoulders hiked up to his ears in a comedic impersonation of Yuuri, “— _this young very youngster has immense potential to become a skating legend like myself—”_

“I do  _not_ talk like that!” Yuuri says, swatting Phichit’s shoulders in an attempt to break the character.

“ _—his wonderful silver waterfall hair lends an air of fancy-pantsy for which we all should strive!_ ” Phichit dodges the next swat to finish his statement with a poor imitation of Yuuri’s free skate pose.

Yuuri feigns taking offense, letting out an overdramatic gasp that sends them howling with laughter in the backseat. Phichit always knows how to snap him out of it when he starts to get a bit too broody.

The sudden outburst earns them a shush from the passenger’s seat, where Celestino is engrossed in a serious conversation over the phone.

“Sorry Celestino,” Yuuri calls out. Celestino waves them off in acknowledgement and they resume their conversation in lower tones.

“What’s Ciao Ciao busy with?” Phichit slumps in his seat, absently scrolling through Instagram.

“I think he’s having trouble rebooking my tickets to Detroit,” replies Yuuri.

“Detroit? I thought the plan was we train here until it’s time to go to Tokyo for Worlds? ”

“Yeah, he pre-booked our tickets for after the Worlds but if I want enough time to pack up my stuff in Detroit, I’m going to have to leave next week.”

“Pack up your stuff?” echoes Phichit. He abruptly sits up to face Yuuri, phone dropping to his lap. “What do you mean?”

Yuuri sighs. Might as well get this out now. “Phichit, I’m done for the season. I’m going back to Hasetsu.”

 

* * *

 

The trip to Detroit was relatively painless.

Before he left there were many conversations with Celestino and Phichit where they discussed—debated, more like—his withdrawal from Worlds.

Even more conversations ( _plus_ paperwork) had to be made when he informed the JSF about discontinuing his participation for the remainder of the season. Everyone he dealt with so far had been understanding, taking the news somewhat well, and—save for Phichit, who was hell-bent on contributing his opinion in a mix of whines, grumblings, and little shrieks—most of the interactions were calm, for which Yuuri was grateful. The real chaos was going to happen when the Worlds roster came out.

Yuuri shudders at the thought of facing the unholy combination of distressed fans and overzealous reporters.

There was also a slight incident with his stuff at airport security (he’s pretty sure he heard a guard mutter something about “knife shoes”) but other than that, it was relatively painless.

The trip from Detroit would have been equally painless, if it weren’t for the accompaniment of Yuuri’s internal monologue.

Packing up the apartment had been easy enough; the landlord was more than helpful when it came to boxing up and labeling all of Yuuri’s things. Everything that followed was a mindless errand; the tight schedule only had space for a blissfully methodical approach to the process of leaving Detroit, a place he called home for ten years. Yuuri went through the motions of tying up loose ends and all seemed stable—no emotions, no problems—until he got on the plane.

Now the flight back to Japan has Yuuri deep in thought over his career and everything he’s done with his life so far.

Since the age of six, his life revolved around skating; a constant, grueling yet glorious entity that left little time for anything else. Most of his time was spent at the rink, preparing for the coming competitive season. And the end of a competing season only indicated the start of the training season. So the cycle began anew, virtually trapping him in an endless marathon of training and performing. There was no room to breathe, and even less room for error. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, the pressure from years of dominating the skating world accumulated, and the emptiness building up from neglecting the rest of his life finally caught up to him.

Yuuri achieved many milestones on the ice, at the expense of many would-have-been milestones in the other aspects of his life. Granted, he was the most decorated skater of his time, but he missed out on the little things like birthday parties, school trips, summer festivals, and graduations. Whatever love life he miraculously got involved in fell apart after a few months; no one ever had enough patience to share his attention with his passion. Everyone leaves eventually—a lesson he learned the hard way, after a particularly agonizing break-up when he was twenty-three.

Since then, he simply stopped trying; he made his peace with a life spent alone.

Now that he’s secured his fifth win and earned the title of skating legend, the pressure for him to continue being great would be too much, especially after his recent experience. Despite all his accomplishments, he always harboured a small seed of self-doubt, but the thrill of winning usually managed to overshadow it. Over the years however, it became more and more difficult to distract himself from it—he was always questioning his decisions, always criticising his actions. He was condemned to living day after terrible day, having to wake up already exhausted with demands of yesterday, to be compounded with the new pressures of today. It was like he was trying to bury himself alive and the only thing he could do was watch it happen.

After the catastrophe at Sochi, it bloomed into something much darker, and that’s when Yuuri understood: it was time to take a break.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri arrives at Yu-topia, his parent’s inn and hotspring in Hasetsu. It’s been years since Yuuri’s last visit and so much has changed. There’s new paint on the façade, new shoe lockers and vending machines in the foyer, and a new display of local delicacies in the common area. But amongst the changes were familiar comforts—the hidden hints of home in the same creaky step on the stairs, the smell of green tea, the smooth gleam of the dark wooden floors.

After a brief reunion with his parents (they’re setting up for the dinner rush and things are busy), he finds himself in front of the altar, paying his respects to their dog, Vicchan. The picture they used is an old one, from ages ago, when Yuuri first held Vicchan in his arms.

Yuuri had won Vicchan at a fundraising event for a local animal shelter. The event was a tiny figure skating competition, nothing flashy—no media attention, no strict rules on costumes or music—and the participants were a wide variety of children ages seven to seventeen, all there for the fun of it. He was fifteen at the time, when his ballet teacher made him join to loosen up, to pull him out of the rigor of his constant skating grind. He was always much too serious about skating, too obsessive about getting everything  _just right_.

This was the first time he had fun in a competition; treating everything so casually that he ended up improvising half of the routine on the spot just for the heck of it. When he performed, he didn’t care about winning or losing. The pure thrill of letting loose on the ice was a breath of fresh air from the rigidity of his training; a reminder of what his love for the ice felt like.

When they announced Yuuri as the winner, they hung a cheap little gold medal around his neck, and put a happy little brown poodle in his arms. It was Mari who had snapped the photo of Yuuri, balancing the happy little puppy on his shoulder and flashing a peace sign, an easy grin on his face. He named the puppy Victory to commemorate the win—Vicchan, for short.

“Hey,” says a voice behind him.

Yuuri turns toward the speaker. It’s Mari, standing by the door as she ties an apron around her waist.

“Hey yourself.” Yuuri smiles. “It’s been a while, huh?”

“It’s been too long.” She responds with a grin of her own. “Listen, the dinner rush is a bit busy so we’ll catch up later.”

“Yeah, no problem. You need any help?”

“No, it’s fine. You go settle. Oh, Yuko and Takeshi are at the rink if you want to stop by and say hello. Anyway, I have to go. I’ll see you after dinner, yeah?”

“After dinner,” Yuuri confirms.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Mari says before she hurries to help out in the kitchen.

Yuuri gives Vicchan’s altar one last look then makes his way to his room to get his jacket. It would be great to see Yuko and Takeshi again. On his way out, he grabs his skating gear as well. A few laps around the rink will do him some good. Might help appease the anxiety that has been gnawing at him all day.

When Yuuri arrives at the Ice Castle skating rink, he takes his time climbing the steps to the entrance and he recalls his childhood with a twinge of nostalgia. There were three constants in his childhood memories: Yuko, Takeshi, and ice-skating.

Yuko and Takeshi Nishigori were his long-time rinkmates. They were there from the very beginning, since the first time Minako, his ballet teacher, dragged him to the rink. Yuuri had an especially bad day and it was the only thing she could think of to cheer him up. It only took an hour for him to fall in love with the ice, begging his parents to sign him up for lessons as soon as he got home.

He and Yuko got along quickly. She was warm and kind, and they shared a fondness for mimicking routines they saw on television. Takeshi on the other hand, an older kid in their class, had taken to bullying him for his size and weight. It took a few months before he eventually warmed up to Yuuri, the two becoming good friends over time. They spent countless hours training and working on their routines together. Although Yuuri was the only one who moved on to participate in competitions, both national and international, they all maintained a love for the sport.

After years of dancing around each other, Yuko and Takeshi finally got together when Yuuri left for Detroit. They got married the following year, timing it with Yuuri’s bi-annual visit home so he could attend the wedding. It wasn’t long before the couple was pregnant with triplets. Yuuri got to meet the girls a few times when they were babies but couldn’t keep up with the visits when his career began to take off. He did keep in touch with the Nishigori family through Skype calls and occasionally sent gifts in the post.

It’s only now that he starts to realize how long it’s been since he was last here with Yuko and Takeshi. He’s excited to see them again.

Yuuri gets no further than five steps into the reception area when he hears a shriek of “YUUUUURIIII” and is tackled by the  _entire_  Nishigori family. They’re a tangled mess of limbs on the floor before Yuuri can stop it from happening. He resigns himself to his fate, wondering how long until he suffocates and is welcomed by the sweet embrace of death.

“Can’t…breathe,” Yuuri wheezes under the giggling heap of bodies. Thankfully, Takeshi hears him and hoists himself and his daughters off of him. Yuko holds her hand out; the triplets pull her up as well.

“Yuuri! It’s so great to see you! Sorry, we may have gotten too excited with the welcome hug,” Yuko helps Yuuri up and pulls him into a gentler, more traditional welcome hug.

“It’s great to see you too,” Yuuri says, readjusting his glasses.

“You remember the triplets.” Yuko gestures toward her daughters. “Axel, Lutz, and Loop!”

Yuuri scoops them up in a bear hug in lieu of a hello. The hug lasts about a second, before the triplets wriggle out of his arms to squeal excitedly and run away. Yuuri watches them with a smile.

“They’ve gotten so much bigger since I last saw them,” he comments.

“It’s been five years. Of course they’ve gotten bigger.” Yuko links her arms through Yuuri’s and Takeshi’s. The three of them walk toward the rink.

“How old are they now? Seven? Eight?” Yuuri says.

“Try nine, champ,” says Takeshi, amused.

“Nine? Oh wow, they’re really not babies anymore.” Yuuri says disbelievingly. He’s pretty sure it was only last year when he had to help with their diapers.

“They’re frigging monsters now, is what they are!” Takeshi’s eyes widen comically, and Yuuri swears he can see flashbacks of a more stressful time in them.

“Don’t be so harsh on your daughters.” Yuko scolds. “They are pretty intense though. They turned into quite the skating fangirls over the years.”

“Skating fangirls? They’re full-fledged  _skate-crazy otakus_!” Takeshi underlines his statement with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. Yuuri and Yuko sway with the movement. “I blame you, Yuuri. You gave them skating fever.”

“What—I did not!”

"Did too!" Takeshi says. "They're really,  _really_  big fans of  _Skating Legend,_ Uncle Yuuri."

"What—They are not!"

"You should see all the posters they have in their room," Yuko adds teasingly, as Takeshi grins at Yuuri's building embarrassment. 

"Stop," Yuuri whines jokingly elbowing Yuko.

She bumps into Takeshi, who stumbles, and ends up dragging their linked formation straight into a wall.

Their small talk continues as they gear up and transfer onto the ice, doing a few laps as they catch up on things they left out during Skype calls. The mood takes a somber dip when they ask if Yuuri plans to retire. He had already implied it briefly when they called him in Detroit, so he gives them an overview of what led him to take a break, starting with the Sochi GPF.

Yuuri’s story comes to an end as he slows to a halt by the sound system at the side of the rink. Yuko and Takeshi follow his lead, coming to rest at either side of him. He pulls out his phone.

“Actually, there’s something I’ve been working on. I’m not sure if I’m going to use it next season but I’ve had this routine for a while now and it feels like something I want to share.” Yuuri’s voice is soft, almost reminiscent of his younger, shyer self. He slowly takes his glasses, carefully folding it before he hands it to Yuko. Takeshi sets up the Bluetooth speaker to pair up with his phone as Yuuri skates to the middle of the rink.

“The song’s called Stammi Vicino. The theme is on my love.”

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, Yuuri, Minako, and Mari wind down in the common room. Mari brings out a few drinks for them while Minako flips through the television channels until she finds the annual skating special featuring the competitors of the current season. They quietly discuss the status of Yuuri’s career, Mari and Minako expressing their thoughts on Yuuri’s possible retirement.

“You think this is it?” says Mari, indicating his early exit from the season as the start of his retirement.

“No,” Yuuri says carefully, pausing in thought before replying. “Definitely not. But it feels like my time is almost up.”

“Yeah, but this champ's probably got three seasons left in him,” Minako says, her hand giving him an encouraging thump on the back. She had a habit of pushing him to excel, always managing to make him take three steps beyond where he thinks his limits are.

“Maybe one more,” he corrects. This time, he’s sure.

The show starts a segment on the Russian skaters. Yuuri watches with mild interest, as an ice dancing Victor Nikiforov appears on screen, accompanied by a voiceover on Nikiforov’s trademark androgyny seen in his appearance and choreography.

“Pretty-boy over there seems quite adventurous with his jumps,” says Minako, taking a swig of beer.

“I think the term you’re looking for is ‘reckless,’” Mari says while holding her cup out at Yuuri, who kindly pours another shot of sake.

“’Reckless’ is the word for it,” Yuuri agrees. “I see what he’s going for—and it’s good—but he seems to lack the training to pull it off.”

Mari and Minako nod aggressively. They’re clearly starting to reach the peak of their alcohol tolerance.

“ _That_  kid though—” Mari gestures at the TV, where a younger skater appears, chin-length blond hair fanning through the air as he lands a perfect quad Salchow. “Wow!”

The show narrator introduces him as Yuri Plisetsky, age fifteen, The Ice Tiger of Russia and current Junior Worlds champion. After a short clip of Plisetsky’s performance at the Junior Worlds, there’s a short interview with him. Yuuri recognizes the voice almost immediately. He laughs dryly to himself— _yep, that’s him_. The angry bathroom boy from Sochi.

During the commercial break, Minako and Mari try to convince each other that they’re not drunk, in between offering well-meaning but poorly-phrased advice to Yuuri.

Yuuri watches them argue drunkenly for a moment. He decides to take charge: ushering Mari to her room and Minako into a spare. They turn in for the night and Yuuri settles in his old bed, content. It’s great to be home again.

 

* * *

 

It had been a long week.

By long, Yuuri meant tiring. And by tiring, he meant chaotic.

The first wave of absolute mayhem hit when the Worlds roster came out and the public realized Yuuri was not on the list. Intrigue surrounded Yuuri Katsuki, skating legend and world champion, who unexpectedly dropped off-grid before the season was over. It was a complete scandal, for skating fanatics and sports reporters alike, and everyone went  _ballistic_.

The buzz of speculations, as well as the infinite amount of calls he was receiving, prompted him to hold a press conference to lay rest to all the profoundly outlandish fan theories that were circulating the internet: he had an illness, he had an injury, he  _lost his foot_ , he got someone pregnant, he's switching to a hockey career—the claims were endless. He formally announced he was in need of personal time off. There were many follow-up questions—mostly on the topic on retirement. He replies he wouldn’t call it retirement but he’s definitely done for this season at least. The retirement would be a discussion for another time.

The second wave of mayhem happened shortly after, when the triplets uploaded a video of his Stammi Vicino routine. Yuuri doesn’t even have time to wonder how they managed to record him before the video goes viral and he’s hounded by the internet yet again. From the initial two hundred views, the numbers shot up to one million overnight.

If the attention on Yuuri was like blinding spotlight during the Worlds roster incident, the Stammi Vicino video had attention burning him with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Yuuri was just about ready to crawl under a rock and stay there. Forever. He was done. Yuko was furious. The girls tried to justify it as a sneak peek for Yuuri’s latest project ( _“He did say he wanted to share it, mama!”_ ), but Yuko was having none of it. Axel, Lutz, and Loop were immediately rewarded with a two-week-long suspension from the internet. Yuuri followed suit, temporarily deleting all his social media apps in an effort to thwart the barrage of notifications on all his accounts.

Now that the madness was done and dealt with, he was more than ready to settle back into a satisfying and, hopefully, nondescript life.

 

* * *

 

Mornings at the inn are pretty routine: set the dining area and common room for guests, help prepare food for the breakfast crowd, heave boxes into the pantry. Why there are boxes for him to heave every morning, Yuuri has no idea. There are just boxes upon boxes of both dry and perishable goods and he finds himself starting to develop an unreasonable resentment toward their existence. Today, however, is different. Today, Yuuri finds himself thankful for their presence and goes so far as to vow never to resent them even again.

When Minako suddenly barges in at 6a.m., screeching excitedly about  _the latest skating news omg_ , Yuuri immediately checks out of the conversation. He tries to excuse himself, saying he’s busy (“ _Yes very busy, Minako-sensei, goodbye,”_ ) with chores. Minako, refusing to give up, badgers him all the way to pantry where Yuuri takes refuge behind a few boxes in a fit of desperation.

“Minako-sensei, I told you a hundred times: I don’t want to hear or see anything skating-related,  _please_!” Yuuri locks his elbows to support the box barricade he’d built between them, as she struggles to shove her phone in his face.

“But this is something you  _have_  to see!” With an angry huff, she swipes at her phone. The opening instrumental of Stammi Vicino blares from the phone speakers.

“I already  _know_  the girls’ video went viral! The video’s been out for  _weeks_ —what is it with everyone today! First Phichit sends me a million texts saying I should call because he has ‘MEGA NEWS’ to tell me, then Yuko calls me and all I hear is the triplets screaming, and now—”

He’s cut off when Minako’s arm reaches around the barricade to show him the video. The onscreen image is a figure performing to Stammi Vicino. He squints at the screen when he catches a streak of silver—it’s not him.

It’s Victor Nikiforov.

His phone beeps with another text from Phichit.

 **Phichit (6:06 am)** :  _Bet you wish you listened to me when I said I had something important to tell you ;P_

 

* * *

 

Yuuri watches the video with Minako from the beginning; pausing and pulling the cursor back to re-watch the moments that catch his eye.

“There,” he says softly, pointing at the screen.

“He changed a bit of the step sequence and—” his finger drags along the video streaming bar until he finds what he’s looking for “—there! He added a few jumps and spin combinations as well.”

He silently marvels at the adjustments Victor made. His interpretation gave the piece a new life, adding an element of tenderness that was missing from the original.

Admittedly, Victor’s skating was lacking in the expressive grace that Yuuri possessed, and he put too many reckless jumps, but the overall effect was a shade under impressive.

As the performance winds down with a return to the original choreography, Yuuri moves to hand the phone back to Minako, but she holds it firm in his hands.

“Watch it ‘til the end.”

Yuuri glances back at the screen in time to hear Victor’s closing remarks.

“Hi everyone! Hope you liked my video response to Mr. Yuuri Katsuki’s Stammi Vicino. Yuuri, hi! Did I get it right? I hope I got it right.” He laughs self consciously before flashing a dazzling smile. “Anyway, I’ll see you next week!”

“See you next week?” Yuuri repeats. His eyes zero in on the timestamp below the video. It was posted a week ago. “He’s…he’s talking to his followers, right?”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri’s bending over a table to clear leftovers when a bark catches his attention. As he turns, he’s tackled by two sets of paws: one belonging to a frightened Himalayan cat, who scrambles over him to hide on a shelf, and the other belonging to a very excited brown poodle. The dog plants his paws on Yuuri’s chest and barks happily.

“Vicchan?!” Yuuri frowns,  _no, not Vicchan_. Vicchan was a toy poodle. This one’s too large. This one’s a standard-sized poodle. Yuuri struggles to lift the heavy dog, who seems determined to greet him by thoroughly nuzzling his hair.

His father passes by with a smile. “He looks just like our Vicchan doesn’t he?”

“Yeah he does,” Yuuri says distractedly, dusting off the front of his shirt as he watches the dog prance away. “Where did he…?”

“He came with that cat and two new guests. Silly kids couldn’t stop bickering. They’re foreigners, by the looks of it. We don’t get many silver-haired, blue-eyed people—”

Wait. What?

“—Russian maybe? I’m never good at identifying accents. The blond one was very angry though I can tell—” Toshiya’s monologue fades as he walks into the kitchen, while Yuuri’s mind fumbles with new information.

Russian kids. Angry blonde.

“—anyway they’re in the onsen now if you want to say hi,“ his dad continues absently as he wipes the tables.

First level of comprehension: silver hair.

Second level of comprehension: there’s a hazy flashback to the strange interactions at the Sochi GPF.

Final level of comprehension:  _Oh no._

Yuuri makes a mad dash to the onsen.

 

* * *

 

Russia’s rising star, Victor Nikiforov, age twenty-three, has just finished his first Grand Prix Final and is gearing up for Serious Training for the next season.

Russia’s rising star, Victor Nikiforov, age twenty-three, is currently standing naked in the Yu-Topia onsen, back arched, silver hair flowing, with one arm outstretched toward a very bewildered Yuuri Katsuki.

“Yuuri! Hi!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you!  
> Thanks so much for stopping by to read my (first!) fic :) Hope you liked it! 
> 
> Credits to my team for chap1:  
> Jacquielou - my co-author of sorts for the first half (also thank you for the 12-hour phonecall of sabaw hahaha)  
> Kiara - my /brilliantly wonderful/ editor. Seriously, the adjustments you made upped the quality by a lot  
> Cassi - my one-woman focus group (focus woman??) and fic buddy :D
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to this lovely artist and her comic that inspired me to write the fic:  
> http://doodlesonice.tumblr.com/post/156532417501/oh-my-god-okayplease-bear-with-me-more-reverse
> 
> One chapter down, and ~~eleven~~ ten more to go. Here's to hoping we complete this project with our sanity intact nyahahaha
> 
> Thanks to all you lovely folks and hope you have a great day!
> 
> edit: chapter was revamped on Jan 2018


	2. Two Yuri’s?! Drama at Yu-topia

Yuuri is beyond confused.

He lets out an exasperated sigh, and brings a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, hoping it keeps what’s left of his sanity from escaping his system. His other hand has his phone pressed against his ear. The person on the line is near hysterics, a steady stream of laughter coming from the receiver.

“Phichit…” he starts, trying getting his friend’s attention but to no avail; Phichit’s been laughing for about thirty seconds now.

When his father mentioned the new Russian guests, Yuuri had a suspicion it might be the skaters he saw on TV—the descriptions were too on-the-nose to be anyone else—yet he was wildly unprepared for whatever the hell  _this_  was: a very naked Victor Nikiforov at his family’s onsen.

“Starting today, I’m here to be your apprentice!” Victor had declared cheerfully.

There were three seconds of complete stillness, while Yuuri stared in shock and Victor held the ridiculous pose, before Victor upended in the water. A furious Yuri Plisetsky erupted from where Victor had stood, sputtering up water and scrubbing his eyes. Was Victor stepping on him this entire time? What the actual fu—?

Yuri Plisetsky was about to climb out when Victor resurfaced, gasping for air.

“You  _jerk_! I can’t believe I actually followed your pathetic ass all the way here!” Yuri snarls, giving Victor a hard shove before exiting the spring. He glowered at Yuuri as he sped toward the changing room.

“This is  _all your fault_ , you old geezer!” Yuri yelled. He pushed past the still-stunned Yuuri and stomped away.

It was at this point that Yuuri short-circuited, only managing to jump-start into working condition when his reeling mind staggers to a stop on the best plan of action: run outside and frantically dial for Phichit.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry I’m done I promise,” Phichit finishes with a snicker. “When I first heard the rumors, I didn’t think much of it, but I guess you calling me in a panic confirms it.”

“Wai—what—you  _knew about this_?” Yuuri was aghast. Phichit, his best friend of many years, kept important information from him? This was beyond betrayal.

“It was all over the internet yesterday! I didn’t think to tell you because it was all hearsay. Plus,  _you_  made it very clear to keep you out of the loop on skating news,” explains Phichit. “I figured if something happened, you’d call. And guess what, mister— _I was right_.”

Yuuri can practically see the smug look on Phichit’s face.

“Anyway, all I know is that they’re there to train under you. I’m guessing they want something like a training camp type thing? When did you even talk to them about this?” Phichit says.

Yuuri frowns. Talk to them? The last time he interacted with any of them was at the Sochi GPF last December.

“I was with you practically the entire time we were at Sochi and I don’t remember any discussion on this coming up at all. I mean, we did drink at the banquet but—”

“—Phichit,” warns Yuuri.

“I know, I know, Protocol One. Don’t worry, all I was gonna say was that nothing happened other than  _the usual_ ,” Phichit says with a suggestive tone Yuuri chooses to ignore. He’s sure Phichit is wiggling his eyebrows as he says it. “There was a short time you were gone though, didn’t you talk to them then?”

Yuuri paces in worried little circles on the inn’s driveway, trying to remember anything other than the short incident in the bathroom, and the one with the reporters—nope, nothing.

“Yeah, but barely. It wasn’t even a proper conversation and I didn’t even recognize the blonde one until I saw him on TV a few weeks ago,” he tells Phichit.

With all the thinking he’d been capable of in the last ten minutes, he still hadn’t drawn a semblance of a hypothesis of  _where_ or  _how_  this even began. A press conference and a viral video beget two top-tier Russian skaters at his door? This entire thing didn’t make sense.

“So. What are you planning to do with this  _interesting_ new development?” says Phichit, who doesn’t even have the decency to try to hide the mirth in his voice.

“I don’t know. Roll with it?” he deadpans.

“Good choice,” says Phichit.

It takes a while for them to discuss Yuuri’s options; he leans heavily toward sending Victor and Yuri back to their parents—back to  _their_   _country_ —but Phichit is quick to persuade him otherwise. Phichit’s reasons seem sound (“ _They came all this way just to learn from you didn’t they? And you did say you needed something new to do while you figured out your whole career thing. You need to pass on your legacy! One of them could be the next Yuuri Katsuki!”_ ).

Yuuri’s brain maxes out on bewilderment, and officially taps out. There’s nothing left to do but agree with Phichit.

 

* * *

 

When Yuuri heads back to look for their new guests, he runs into his mother, who takes him by the arm and leads him toward the common room.

“They came looking for you after the onsen but I didn’t think you were ready for them yet,” she says, reaching up to pat Yuuri fondly on the cheek. “So I gave them snacks and put them down for a nap.”

“You put them down for a nap? Mom, they’re not toddlers.” Yuuri laughs. “I’m pretty sure Victor’s in his twenties.”

They’re standing at the threshold of the common room and from here, Yuuri can see Victor and Yuri, dressed in the inn’s green robes and passed out under the warmth of a kotatsu.

“See? The nap was a good call. I think they’re pretty jet lagged,” she says with a knowing nod.

“Okay, thanks mom.” Yuuri chuckles softly. His mom’s mothering instincts knew no bounds; Hiroko was the type of person who considered anyone, under the age of thirty, a baby. She was the resident mother hen, and Yuuri’s sure she has given literally everyone in their neighborhood a packed lunch at least once. No one is safe from the loving bentos of Hiroko Katsuki.

“They’re  _adorable_ ,” she says, smiling. Upon closer inspection, Yuuri notices that they’re both cuddling their respective pets; Victor’s nose is buried in his dog’s fur, and Yuri has his cat curled on his chest, head tucked under Yuri’s chin.

“You’re not going to think that once they wake up and start screaming again.” Yuuri mutters darkly, the small outburst at the onsen still fresh in his mind.

“ _Adorable_ ,” she insists, giving Yuuri one last pat before she goes back to the reception area.

Yuuri sighs. He’s just about to sit and wait for them to wake up when there’s a series of thuds at the entrance that sound suspiciously like someone running in boots. He’s got a bad feeling about this.

“Where is he— _and_   _why is his phone busy_?!” Minako barges through the entrance, and right into Hiroko.

“Oh my, so many exciting things happening at the inn today,” Hiroko comments, happily dusting the snow off Minako’s head. “You seem upset dear, is something wrong?”

“The internet is going  _insane_! They’re saying the Russian skaters want Yuuri to be their mentor?!” She says.

“Ah, yes. That probably explains what they’re doing here then,” Hiroko says helpfully.

“ _What_.”

 

* * *

 

Minako and Yuuri stand at the common room doorway, staring wordlessly as they struggle to process the reality of the situation.

“I can’t believe they’re actually here,” Minako stage-whispers in disbelief.

“I can’t either,” Yuuri agrees.

“Apparently, they’ve both looked up to you when they were growing up. Your press conference caught their attention and the viral video sealed the deal! They saw this pause in your career as an opportunity to learn from you!”

“Me?”

“You’re the best skater out there, Yuuri. You’re the Skating Legend and Five-Time GPF Champion. They  _chose_  you to be their mentor—they came here for _you_!” Minako punctuates her sentence with a poke at Yuuri’s chest.

They hear a soft cough and they both freeze—Victor’s starting to stir.

Victor stretches, waking Yuri up in the process when he accidentally knocks an arm against his head. Yuri blinks at Victor with a sleepy frown, moving his cat to his lap as he sits up. He speaks to Victor in soft Russian and waits for a response. The older skater untangles from his dog and pulls himself up slowly, only to slump comically over the table. Yuri repeats himself and waits, with a patience Yuuri wouldn’t have guessed he was capable of, for Victor to respond. Victor replies with what sounds like a question and Yuri nods.

Yuuri watches them curiously. It’s weird to see them interact so amicably—like the attempted murder-by-drowning never happened. With one final stretch of his limbs, Victor jerks upright.

“Yuuuuri?” Victor whips around to look at Yuuri. The movement makes half of his hair slip out of his hair tie.

“Yes?” Yuuri moves to sit at the table next to theirs. Minako hovers closely, intently watching the exchange.

“Is there more food? We’re a little hungry,” Victor says, gathering his hair into a loose loop behind his head.

“Yeah, sure. What do you want to eat?” Yuuri says, distantly realizing this is the first proper, direct conversation they’ve had.

“I’d like to try the inn’s specialty,” says Yuri, idly pulling the tips of the cat’s ears together, then apart, in a gentle, continuous window-wiper motion. The cat makes no effort to stop him, clearly enjoying the attention.

He’s weirdly subdued, Yuuri notes. Quiet tones and calm responses, one would never think this child’s teenage angst, usually at full blast, earned him his second nickname: The Russian Punk.

“Yuuri—coach. Can I call you coach? Now that I’m your apprentice—”

“ _We_ ,” interrupts Yuri, no bite in his tone.

“Now that  _we’re_  your apprentices, we have to get to know each other better to optimize our mentor-apprentice bond. Let’s start with your favourite food. I think that’s something I have to know! What’s your favourite food, coach?” Victor awaits Yuuri’s answer with shining eyes.

Yuuri fumbles for an answer. “Uhh…”

He hasn’t even officially accepted them as his students and already this kid is talking a mile a minute about gods-know-what. It’s going to take him a while to adjust to this level of enthusiasm.

“He likes Katsudon. It’s his favourite thing to eat when he wins a competition. It also happens to be the inn’s specialty,” offers Minako in a conversational save.

Yuuri smiles gratefully at her.

“That sounds great!” Victor exclaims. Really, this level of enthusiasm should be punishable by law. “Katsudon it is. May we have two please?”

“Okay, you wait here while I tell Mari-nee—” Yuuri begins to rise from his seat but Minako beats him to the punch.

“I’m on it!”

Before Yuuri can object to being left  _alone_  with these children, Minako had already leapt into the safety of the kitchen, successfully escaping the uncomfortable task of making small talk. He draws a breath (for strength) and turns to face the two skaters, who are looking at him expectantly.

“So.” He clears his throat. Well, this is awkward. He has half a mind to pretend he’s needed in the kitchen, but decides against it. “I have to admit, this visit is unexpected…”

Victor’s face visibly drops into a pout, which Yuuri assumes Victor developed when he was three years old, and just never outgrew. It takes all of Yuuri’s will not to laugh at the sight of this 23-year old man, looking very much like an overgrown toddler.

“But if we’re going to do this apprenticeship thing seriously, you’re going to have to give me time to figure out a training curriculum,” he continues, in subtle amusement, as Victor’s expression brightens immediately.

“For now, I guess I’m going to need a rundown of your skating goals? Tell me what you want to us to work on while you’re here.”

“Skating goals…” Yuri speaks first, thoughtful and still unnaturally civil. “My specialty is combination spins. Jumps and step sequences, I’m decent at. What I need help with is my senior division program. I’m not so good with choreography yet and I want to make sure my senior debut is a good one.”

“This idiot  _Barbie_ , however,” he jerks his thumb to point at Victor, “is good at choreography, decent at step sequences, and has a high skill level in landing difficult jumps—”

Victor lets out a pleased hum and looks like he’s going to thank Yuri for the unexpected praise, but before he can say anything, Yuri launches into a litany of critique.

“But he has  _absolutely no focus, which interferes with his skating themes, likes to push his luck on his jumps so he flubs them half the time, and lacks the discipline to do cross-training to help with his technique!_ ” He snarls. Ah, there it is—the infamous Russian Punk is back.

The two are glaring daggers at each other and look like they’re about to start bickering when Mari (thankfully) arrives with the food. Minako follows after her, holding a tray with tea for all of them.

“Food’s here!” Mari announces, setting the food on the table, while Minako passes the cups of tea around.

Victor and Yuri’s attention zero in on the steaming bowls of katsudon, their fight momentarily forgotten. Yuuri uses this pause to introduce Mari and Minako to Victor and Yuri, and vise versa. Victor holds up his dog (“ _And this is Makkachin!”_ ), and Yuri lifts his cat to his chest ( _“Pyocha”_ ).

“Hang on, your name’s Yuuri too? That’s going to be confusing,” Mari says, giving Yuri a casual once-over. “You know what, we’re going to call you ‘Yurio.’”

“Yu-ri-o,  _Yurio_ ,” Victor tests the nickname as the newly-dubbed Yurio protests indignantly.

“I am  _not_  going by that stupid name!”

“Anyway, food’s here. Time to eat. Go on!” Yuuri says hurriedly, pushing the bowls toward them in a preemptive measure for peace.

It takes a single bite of the pork cutlet for Victor’s face to break into a satisfied grin.

“Vkusno!!!” 

 

* * *

 

Whatever doubt Yuuri had about the Russians  _really_  staying with them was erased when Mari asks him what to do all their suitcases. More things to heave—great. He’s accepted they’ll be staying at Yu-topia for a while, and was expecting a few pieces of luggage. But this mountain of suitcases seems to suggest they were moving in permanently.

Yuuri prays this isn’t the case.

After much confusion, and Yuuri playing referee more times than necessary, they eventually work out a system: Yurio takes the suitcases from the entryway to the foot of the stairs that lead to the family wing, Victor carries them up the stairs to the landing, and Yuuri takes them to the room.

The family wing is located upstairs, in the older parts of the inn. It used to be the inn’s guestrooms, back when his parents inherited the then-tiny Yu-topia. Shortly after Mari was born, the competing onsens started shutting down one by one, directing the flow of tourists and locals to their modest Yu-topia, the last onsen in Hasetsu. To accommodate the increased influx of patrons and make space for their growing family, his parents decided to renovate the inn, adding an entire guest wing on the ground floor, and converting the older rooms into the Katsuki family wing.

With instructions from his mother, he sets them up in the biggest room—in what used to be a tiny function hall the inn had used for guests that preferred private group gatherings.

There’s a loud bang at the foot of the steps followed by a shout (“ _I’m done and going for a bath!”_ ). Victor drags the last of the suitcases into the room while Yuuri tries to figure out where to put the coffee table and couch his mom insisted they drag out of storage in an effort to make the place more homey.

“I’ve admired you since I was a kid,” Victor says, casually walking to stand beside Yuuri. It comes out less vivacious than his previous conversation attempts and more like a shy confession. “You’re the reason I started skating.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri accepts the compliment with a polite nod. “I’ve seen you skate.” He adds, smiling kindly at Victor. “You’ve got a lot potential. With enough training, you’ll probably be better than me.”

“You mean that?” says Victor.

“I do,” Yuuri says simply.

Victor beams at him.

“It’s a little unreal,” Victor admits. “Standing here with you.”

He lets out a self-conscious laugh, the same one Yuuri heard in his video response. This is the first he’s seen Victor without the showy, over-the-top charm, and Yuuri’s careful not to discourage him.

“Trust me, it’s unreal for me too,” Yuuri reassures him before turning back to the coffee-table-and-couch situation.

They busy themselves with moving the furniture and the suitcases around the room, until they finally find a set-up that seemed functional.

“Sorry by the way that we had to put you here,” Yuuri apologizes, looking around at their current layout: couch and coffee table on one side, suitcases in a neat row on the other, and the futons in the middle (Yuuri makes a mental note to get them proper beds). The room was more tiny function hall than sleeping quarters so there weren’t any cabinets for them to store their things (he makes another mental note to get them shelves).

“I know it’s not really a bedroom but the old banquet room was the only place that could fit all your stuff,” Yuuri says.

In an instant, Victor’s previously shy mood is gone and his eyes light up at the word ‘banquet.’ He slinks toward Yuuri with a sly look on his face. Yuuri does not like that look at all; there’s something about that look that makes his brain pull up a red flag.

“It’s okay, the banquet room is perfect. I’ll make it work, don’t you worry.” Victor winks. “Now then, I think it’s time for us to get to know each other.”

Victor’s getting closer now, but Yuuri’s rooted to the spot, torn between his fight-or-flight impulses.

“What kind of rink do you skate at? What hobbies do you have? Is there someone you like?” Victor says, peering up at Yuuri through his lashes. He’s close enough to take Yuuri’s hand in his. “I want to know everything about you, and I want you to know everything about me.”

Yuuri’s brain sounds an alarm: more red flags _—all the red flags!_

“A relationship like this should be built on trust, don’t you think?” Victor continues as his other hand traces along the line of Yuuri’s jaw.

Yuuri startles at the brash contact, and his body suddenly decides— _flight_. He scampers backward, and straight into the line of suitcases.

“Huh? Why did you run away?” Victor says, brows knitting together in genuine confusion.

At that moment, Yurio walks into the room, fresh from the baths and scrubbing his hair dry with a towel. Makkachin and Pyocha are at his heels; it seems like they’ve made peace over the chase in the common room. Their owners, on the other hand, have yet to follow their example.

“What did you do, you gross flirt?” he demands, rounding on Victor, after taking one look Yuuri, flustered and sprawled among the suitcases.

“Yurioooo,” Victor whines. “Why must you always ruin everything?”

“That’s not my name!” Yurio snaps, voice rising in irritation. “Me?! Ruining everything?!  _You’re_  the one who’s been annoying since forever and  _absolutely gross_  since after Sochi. You’re the one ruining everything for  _me_!”

“Excuse you,” Victor says sharply, his voice rising to match Yurio’s. “If I remember correctly, you were  _perfectly fine_  during the banqu—”

“Well if you hadn’t  _done the thing_ —”

“That wasn’t my fau—”

Yuuri jumps to his feet just as Yurio moves to towel-whip Victor in the shin and Victor scrunches into defense.

“ _OKAY_.” Yuuri speaks over them authoritatively, with a sudden seriousness that immediately has Victor and Yurio’s attention. Yurio drops the towel, and Victor eases out of what looks like was going to be a crane kick.

“I have no idea what’s happening and I don’t want to know.”

Victor looks like he’s about to argue but Yuuri shoots him a warning glance.

“I think it’s time to introduce Protocol One,” Yuuri says. “Protocol One: You  _do not_  talk about the banquet—you never talk about anyof the banquets. Mention even a tiny hint of what happened, or bring up any banquet-related photo or video, and your ass flies back to Russia.”

Victor and Yurio shut their mouths instantly.

Yuuri’s first-ever Grand Prix Final banquet was a night many skaters would describe as  _epic_ ; it was the first time they saw Yuuri Katsuki, world’s meekest boy, turn into a champagne-induced party  _maniac_ —challenging everyone to a dance-off, instigating too many rounds of shots, and teaching a variety of highly questionable party games. Needless to say, it was the most fun anyone’s had  ~~in their lives~~  at a banquet.

The next morning had Yuuri 100% mortified, trying to smother his shame under all the pillows in their hotel room, as Phichit and Chris kindly (giddily) filled him in on all the fun (humiliating) things he did after his eighth glass of champagne.

Yuuri swore off on all alcoholic drinks at the following banquet—meticulously monitoring all his drinks, resulting in an appropriately bland evening—much to everyone’s dismay.

The year after, which was the year of Yuuri’s first GPF gold, the other GPF finalists and Phichit—who tagged along with Yuuri and Celestino until he was a finalist himself—managed to goad Yuuri into getting blackout drunk again, resulting in yet another monumentally hilarious night. They learned as long as no one mentions anything to anyone after the banquet, Yuuri would allow himself to keep drinking and they could keep having their banquet shenanigans.

And thus, in a unanimous decision born from both mercy and selfishness, Protocol One was enacted as Banquet Law.

“Now that that’s settled. I think it’s time we turned in for the evening.” Yuuri claps his hands with finality.

“I can’t believe I have to share a room with you, you traitor,” Yurio grumbles resentfully, as Yuuri calls out a “Goodnight!” and leaves the room.

Like a flip of a switch, Victor’s back to his sunny disposition. He bounds after Yuuri down the hall to his room.

“You know what would be a great idea?” Victor poses the question rhetorically. “We should sleep together!”

“No!” Yuuri is horrified, quickening his strides to get to the safety of his room. He has had enough of these children for today and is in dire need of personal space.

“Why not? It will be like a sleepover!”

Yuuri whips around to give Victor a look of pure disbelief before shutting the door in his face.

“But coach!”

“Go to sleep, Victor!” Yuuri yells through the door. He sinks to the floor with his back pressed against the wood.

Oh dear gods,  _this child_.

* * *

 

The next day has Victor and Yurio roaming around the town with their pets in tow, and Yuuri at his desk at home.

He met with Victor and Yurio briefly over breakfast to tell them he needed the whole day to create a training curriculum, so they had those days off to relax and explore their new environment. When they finished with breakfast, Victor and Yurio were compelled to get dressed, get their stuff, and unceremoniously pushed out the door to “go have fun.”

Yuuri immediately got to work—laptop, notebook and pen at the ready. He did a thorough background check on Victor and Yurio’s current skating skillsets and specialties, problem areas, diets (thank gods for the internet), and he even ended up contacting their guardians to check whether they’ve been legitimately allowed to come to Japan (they were).

He goes over the information he’s gathered with a critical eye. It’s the first time he’s ever been asked—demanded—to be responsible over someone other than himself so he wants to be prepared. It’s a new kind of pressure, to know that he has people who depend on him—very different from the one that’s been eating at him for years. Yuuri wasn’t sure how he felt about it yet, but now was not the time to wallow.

Now was the time to move on to the next task on his list: make calls to Celestino, Minako, Yuko, and Phichit.

The calls were the longest task to tackle, taking a grand total of four hours to complete. The phone call with Celestino took a couple of hours; he was extremely informative but overly detailed, and he also didn’t forget to point out the hilarity of Yuuri’s situation, to which Yuuri responded with a complaint. The call with Minako was quick; it only needed half an hour to agree on the ballet lessons Victor and Yurio would have to review during a refresher course. The conversation with Yuko took about an hour; he gave her a full update on the latest chaotic moment in his life before they blocked out a rink schedule.

The last call he made was to Phichit, who answered after two rings.

“No idea what your latest situation is, but I’ve a feeling this is an appropriate thing to tell you right now: LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL.”

“Curse you, Phichit, and your weird friendship radar,” Yuri said.

“Oh ancient one, I have seen all that you have done or shall do. Know all you have thought or shall think. I am all-knowing. I am Phichit.” Phichit said with a mock Shakespearean inflection that sent them both laughing.

The talk with Phichit was more for leisure than anything else. His brain needed to process the whirlwind of abrupt life-changing elements that blew into his life over the course of twenty-four hours. They catch up for while—Yuuri asks about how the training is going for Worlds, Phichit asks about the Russian kids—before Phichit had to hang up to start practice.

Yuuri is finishing up the tentative schedule when Mari calls him down for dinner.

He finds almost everyone in the family dining room: Yurio watching TV, with Pyocha asleep by his side; Victor animatedly talking with Minako over a few beers, while Makkachin curiously noses through Minako’s pockets; Mari leaning against the doorframe, enjoying a cigarette.

“Hey,” he says in a general greeting to everyone. He takes a seat at the table. “What did you guys get up to today?”

Victor takes this as his cue to sidle next to Yuuri, offering to show him the photos they took earlier. He let his hair down today, so some of it drapes slightly over Yuuri as Victor subtly presses their shoulders together. He taps at his phone to open his camera roll and Yuuri prepares himself for Victor’s eager narrative.

“Let’s see. We walked by the beach, saw a bunch of creepy statues, Yurio bought a cute tiger sweater at the flea market, and Makka and I had our pic taken at the ninja castle,” he says excitedly. “Here look, we just posted it on Instagram. Ooooh, Phichit liked it already!”

Victor’s swiping through his Instagram, while Yuuri humours him, when suddenly the screen blackens, and starts blinking a photo of an old man in a hat—

**Yakov Feltsman is calling…**

Victor, sensing potential danger at the sight of the call notification, squeaks and immediately flings his phone into Yurio’s lap with a snap of his wrist.

Yurio, unperturbed, answers the call and is greeted with an unpleasant burst of phrases in angry Russian. His face twists into a grimace as he bravely takes an earful of scolding, interjecting occasionally to retort with his own argumentative shouting. His eyes dart to Victor, who’s watching in tense anticipation. With a curt affirmative, Yurio hands the phone to Victor, who gingerly presses it to his ear.

“Hello, Yakov! So nice of you to call,” he says pleasantly, as though he were talking to an old friend, and not a coach that would’ve strangled him via phone if it were possible.

There are a few minutes of Victor just listening as Yakov berates him, his expression turning sheepish and guilty-looking with every passing minute that Yakov yells through the phone.

“What’s happening?” Yuuri says.

Mari and Minako reply with a shrug, so he turns to Yurio for an explanation.

“Well, first he was mad because we didn’t show up for practice,” he explains casually, scrolling on his phone like he isn’t the slightest bit bothered by the wrath of his coach. “But now he’s mad because we’re in Japan and didn’t tell him.”

“You  _what_?!” Yuuri says loudly. Unbelievable. He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose again; it’s just one surprise after another with these two. He gives himself a mental kick—the coach. How could he have forgotten to contact their coach as well?

“Yuuri,” Mari breaks his own internal tirade with a nudge of her foot.

“I think you need to do something about that.” She nods toward Victor, whose sheepish expression starts to veer toward outright sullen.

Yuuri squares his shoulders in determination. Okay, time for damage control. He gently plucks the phone from Victor’s grip and cautiously speaks into the receiver as Victor and Yurio look at him in surprise.

“Mr. Feltsman? This is Yuuri Katsuki.” Yuuri pauses for a reply.

“I understand the situation is a little unorthodox but…” He leaves the room to talk with Yakov in private.

Victor and Yurio make to follow him but Minako stops them with a disapproving raise of her index finger ( _“nope!”_ ). The four of them sit in awkward silence until Yuuri comes back laughing, fifteen minutes later.

“You guys are in trouble when you get back to Russia—I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he adds quickly after seeing Victor and Yurio’s worried faces.

“What did you do?” Victor says, curious.

“I fixed it,” Yuuri says simply, tossing the phone back to Victor.

Victor is about to badger him for more details when Toshiya appears at the door to announce that the food is ready.

Dinner happens without any complications—no unexpected phone calls, no surprise skaters, no attempted murders—just pleasant small talk to accompany their meal.

Yuuri sends a silent  _thank you_  to the Universe for the moment of relative normalcy while he and Mari clear up the plates. Things have been stressful enough as it is, and it’s only the second day.

As they settle for a round of after-dinner tea, Yuuri takes this opportunity to discuss the tentative schedule with Victor and Yurio.

“Our training camp will happen over the course of ten to twelve weeks,” he says, bringing out his phone to check his calendar. “Let’s see—it’s almost the end of February now, so we finish around May. We’ll be doing a lot of conditioning exercises, skating drills, and a refresher ballet course in the first three weeks. And then we’ll work on the programs the rest of the time. We end the camp in a culminating activity where you guys perform the programs we worked on.”

Yuuri hesitates before asking, “Does…does that seem okay?”

Yurio grumbles his agreement, before turning his attention back to his phone, and Victor replies with a cheery “Okay!”

 

* * *

 

Monday training is supposed to start with a jog at 6 a.m.

Which means they’re supposed to be stretching by 5:30 a.m., which means they’re supposed to be up at 5 a.m.

For Yuuri, the early morning start is a familiar habit; it’s been his training schedule for the past twenty years after all. For Victor and Yurio, however, it’s pure _torture_.

On their first morning, it takes Yuuri  _four_  tries to get them awake enough to start moving. The first two tries have Victor up, but only long enough to change clothes before curling into a ball beside his running shoes. Makkachin takes a hold of Victor’s shirt, and tugs until he’s awake enough to finish dressing up. The third try has them both sleepily blinking at their breakfast, which Yurio almost face-plants in.

The fourth try has Yuuri dragging Yurio to the bathroom at some point after breakfast. Yuuri’s grateful Yurio tends to be sleepily subdued in the first thirty minutes of waking up or Yuuri might have had his arm bitten off. Yurio responds by giving Yuuri a small push out of the bathroom when he’s ready to wash up.

When they’re finally,  _finally_  fed, dressed, and warmed-up, it’s already 7 a.m.

Yuuri learns later on that they’re more accustomed to an afternoon-evening training schedule (but that doesn't stop him from keeping their schedules). He checks if they’re properly awake, and then takes off in a light jog. Yurio, Victor, and Makkachin trail behind him dutifully. The jog continues in silence for a few moments before the two get awake enough to start riling each other up.

“Bet you can’t jump over this, Yurio,” Victor says as he makes an obnoxiously graceful grand jeté over a traffic cone.

“Oh yeah?!” Yurio growls.

With an annoyed huff, Yurio chooses to one-up Victor by leaping over one of the metal trashcans on the sidewalk. Victor accepts the challenge and jumps over a sidewalk barrier. Yuuri laughs to himself—they’re so ridiculous. At least he now knows their jumping heights are impressive.

“We’re going to the park over there,” Yuuri calls out, pointing to a spot at the top of a hill before he veers left on a fork in the road.

“I challenge you to a race! First one to the park wins!” Victor declares with a grand sweep of his arm before suddenly taking off in a sprint.

“Psh, I’m totally going to win. The  _Darling of Russia_  is no match for the  _Ice Tiger_!” Yurio says.

With a burst of speed, he manages to get side-by-side with Victor.

“Try to keep up, idiot  _Barbie_!” he sneers, giving Victor’s hair a hard tug so the bun comes loose and the hair falls into his face.

Another burst of speed has Yurio several paces ahead. Victor lets out an offended gasp, frantically pushing the hair out of his face as he tries to keep up.

 

* * *

 

Victor and Yurio get a firsthand taste of what it’s like to train with Yuuri Katsuki.

Conclusion? It’s not fun.

The first few moments were fine, when Victor and Yurio making jabs at each other with a series of challenges.

But after an hour of running, and as they’re halfway through their calisthenics, Victor and Yurio realize, in horror, that they’re way out depth.

Despite his timid outward demeanor, Yuuri-in-training is a force of nature—his stamina keeps him in perpetual workout mode. He’s relentless and unyielding, keeping Victor and Yurio moving on their feet longer than humanly possible. It’s all not on purpose though, with Yuuri literally forgetting that not many people can keep up with him when he gets into his training zone. Even Makkachin gave up, opting to sit by the steps to watch them.

By the time Yuuri notices his students were at death’s door with exhaustion, he had dragged them through sets upon sets of calisthenics that were sure to make them zombies at the end of the day. Whoops.

He grants them a much-needed break and moves on with the last few sets of kicks. They’re both close to passing out: Yurio’s leaning heavily against a tree, and Victor’s outright lying facedown on a bench.

“How—are you—still standing—old—man?” Yurio wheezes. He takes large gasps of air, and pushes his sweaty bangs off his face.

Yuuri chuckles, earning a glare from Yurio, which would have had more effect if he weren’t so out of breath.

“You should drink,” he says, unzipping his pack to get bottles of Gatorade.

Yurio snatches the bottle from his hand and plunks down next to Makkachin. Victor hasn’t moved at all since they stopped to rest, so Yuuri walks over to check if he’s still alive.

“Victor?” Yuuri gently prods Victor with the bottle.

He gets a groan in response before Victor bolts upright, his hair a silver bird’s nest on top of his head. He pulls it free from the hair tie and gathers it to twist into a tight bun.

Yuuri sits next to him and offers the bottle.

“I thought you might’ve passed out,” he says jokingly as Victor gratefully takes the bottle with a laugh.

A short silence settles over them as they rest and take long drinks of Gatorade.

Victor suddenly pipes up.

“So do you have feelings for Minako?” He says innocently.

Yuuri chokes on his Gatorade.

“What—No, no way!” Yuuri pounds his chest and gasps for air. What on earth makes that seem like a necessary question?

He’s trying to recover from the shock, but Victor drops another bomb on him.

“Do you have a lover now?”

“No…?” he says, unsure where these questions are coming from but he definitely wants them to stop.

Victor’s eyes sparkle with interest at Yuuri’s answer.

“What about ex-lovers?!” He prompts excitedly.

“I’d rather not talk about it…” Yuuri says in a subtle attempt to stop this unwanted barrage of deeply personal questions.

Victor, however, is unfazed and continues talking.

“Then let’s talk about me! Let’s see, my first lover was—”

“STOP!” Yuuri and Yurio yell in unison.

Yurio throws his bottle at Victor. It bounces off the top of his head before Yuuri can interfere.

Yuuri sighs as a fight breaks out between the two. Even he doesn’t have enough stamina to deal with this.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri accompanies them to Minako’s ballet class the next day. He’s secretly glad he did, because it was  _fun as hell_  to watch. While Minako outside the ballet studio is a fun-loving, drink-happy, friendly person, Minako inside the ballet studio is a stern, uncompromising, and downright-scary drill sergeant.

The exercises and drills themselves are just the right level of challenging so Victor and Yurio manage to do them without much difficulty.  _Doing them right,_ however, according to Minako’s standards is just the right level of bizarre. She’s got an incredibly good eye for perfection, arming her with the ability to spot the raise of an arm or the turn of a foot when it’s off by the tiniest degree from center.

They’re absolutely baffled, scrambling to figure out how their limbs need to move at precisely the right coordinates ( _“It looks exactly the same?!”_ ) to match the steps that Minako’s teaching. Long story short, they get it wrong. They get it wrong a lot of the time.

Even more baffling, is how she can call out minute errors when she’s not even facing their direction. She just _knows_. And Victor and Yurio are starting to get intimate with the definition of “paranoid.”

By the end of the class, Victor and Yurio look positively traumatized. They both walk home in stunned silence and Yuuri feels a little—just a little—bad for enjoying their two hours of torture.

 

* * *

  

Their first day at the rink doesn’t go according to schedule. With the latest scandal surrounding Yuuri Katsuki and the town a-buzz with excitement over the new sports celebrities (“ _Russia’s Rising Star and Ice Tiger, OMG!_ ”), they’re stopped by a horde of reporters at the entrance of the Ice Castle. Yuuri entertains them briefly, keeping his answers clipped and to the point. The local press know him long enough to know they aren’t getting anything else from him so they flock to Victor and Yurio instead, as Yuuri goes to greet Yuko and Takeshi at the counter.

They watch Victor and Yurio for a moment, and Yuuri’s mildly impressed with how they handle the reporters—all smooth, diplomatic replies and sudden charismatic antics. Yuuri supposes it’s a reflection of high-caliber training that covers all aspects of skating, on and off the ice. He lets them humor the press for a few more minutes before he decides it’s enough.

Yuko and Takeshi are on standby to help clear the crowd but Yuuri shakes his head—he has another idea. He employs Axel, Lutz, and Loop, who he finds hiding behind shelf to gawk at Victor and Yurio, to politely ask the reporters to leave. The girls, more than happy to save their precious Russian idols, manage to successfully chase the press away in under a minute. Yuuri laughs to himself—leave it to these fangirls to get a job done right.

Yuuri thanks them with a smile and steers them toward to Victor and Yurio to reward them with a proper introduction.

“Yurio, Victor, these are my nieces: Axel, Lutz, and Loop,” says Yuuri. He has to keep a hold of the backs of their jackets to keep them steady—they’re so overwhelmed with giddiness, Yuuri’s sure they’re about to either pass out or run away.

“Hello, Axel, Lutz, and Loop!” Victor says, flashing them a smile. “I really like your names!”

Yurio opts to acknowledge them with a quick nod and patient “hello.”

Yuuri makes the mistake of loosening his grip, and the triplets practically fly out of his hands in a fit of giggles.

 

* * *

 

At the rink, Yuuri makes Victor and Yurio do a few warm-up laps before he teaches them the skating drills. He expected them to continue with the jeering habit they picked up during their morning workouts but as soon as they stepped into the rink, their demeanor changed. Victor and Yurio followed after him, suddenly more serious and more focused; obediently tracing patterns on the ice without so much as a single complaint.

He leaves them to practice the drills after he’s sure they’ve gotten the hang of it, and pulls up to the boards to talk with Takeshi. Yuko and the girls are sitting nearby, watching (ogling) while Victor and Yurio scrape back and forth across the ice. She gave up on trying to control them a while ago, the only way that seemed to tame their excitement was to just let them take a million pictures of the  _Darling of Russia_ and  _The Ice Tiger_.

“Uncle Yuuri!” Lutz squeals. “How soon can we post these pictures?!”

Axel and Loop shove their phones at Yuuri, furiously scrolling through their camera rolls to show him the pictures in question. It’s only been half an hour and they’ve amassed quite the collection.

Yuuri crosses his forearms in an “x” sign.

“Sorry, fangirls. This isn’t for public consumption.” He laughs.

Their faces simultaneously fall into identical pouts.

“Think of this as your very own private Victor and Yurio photo collection!” He adds hurriedly, to keep the pouts from developing into full-blown puppy-dog eyes.

“Yes, a private collection sounds great. It’s our highest honor as fangirls!” Axel says dreamily.

“Yurio?” Loop asks, referring to the nickname.

“Mari nee-chan gave him that nickname when they arrived. She said it was to avoid confusion since there are two Yuri’s in the house.” He says.

The three nod distractedly and scuttle away to take more photos at the other side of the rink. Yuuri turns to Takeshi.

“Your daughters,” he says fondly as they climb up on the boards for a better angle.

“My daughters,” Takeshi agrees, shaking his head in comedic exasperation. “So, this is for real huh?”

“Yeah. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it but I guess it’s really happening.”

“Yuuri Katsuki, The Mentor,” Takashi says, tracing an invisible banner in the air with a tone of faux wonder.

“Sounds weird when you say it like that!” Yuuri chuckles, reaching over to knock Takeshi’s arms out of their position in the air. “What made these two fly all the way over here? I’m barely capable of handling myself, let alone two other people.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re a lot better than you think you are.” Takeshi says reassuringly.

“I hope you’re right, for their sake and my sanity.”

Yuuri lets out a worried sigh and turns toward Victor and Yurio.

“Victor, Yurio? Come here for a second,” he calls out.

“Do you have your music from last season’s free skate programs?” He says, pulling his phone from his pocket as they approach. “Could you send them to my phone?”

Yurio nods and Victor hums an affirmative.

“Okay, this is what’s going to happen,” Yuuri explains as they flip through their phones and send the music. “I’m going to need you to take turns performing your free skate program so I can make a proper assessment of where your problem areas are. I know I already made a list but it would be better for me to see it.”

“That sounds like a great idea! Can I go first?” Victor says eagerly, already re-styling his hair into a ponytail.

“Go ahead. Come on, Yurio,” he says right away, mostly to redirect Yurio’s attention, because he started to bristle in response to Victor.

They move to stand at the sound system behind the boards. Takeshi helps Yuuri pair his phone to the speaker as Victor skates to the middle of the ice. His expression turns uncharacteristically solemn as he takes center stage.

There’s a hush of building anticipation as Victor positions himself, head tilted up and the tips of his fingers coming together in front of his chest, painting a picture of a wistful angel in prayer. Then, the opening instrumental fills the rink and Victor starts to perform.

He moves through the first set of step sequences with impressive grace, and Yuuri watches, astonished. The usual, playfully childish façade is gone—replaced with an air of mature sincerity, revealing a surprisingly pleasant depth to Victor’s personality.

“This is the first time I’ve seen him skate properly,” Yuuri comments to Yurio. “It’s like he’s an entirely different person on the ice.”

Yurio snorts.

“That’s Victor’s thing. Always aiming for the unexpected,” he says as Victor performs a series of spin and jump combinations.

His landings are wobbly, Yuuri notes as Victor skids out of rhythm after a landing error from a particularly challenging jump. It would have been impressive if he could pull it off though—definitely one of the things they have to work on.

“Victor is good—great even, when he’s really trying,” Yurio says, apropos to nothing.

Yuuri nods in silent encouragement.

“But he’s  _bad_  at focusing and if he does focus it’s usually on the wrong things.” Yurio continues bitterly as they both watch Victor move into the second half of his program.

“Unlike me he doesn’t skate for family, unlike you he doesn’t skate for purely the sake of passion. His—” Yurio stops himself from finishing the sentence with a slight grit of his teeth.

Yuuri turns to look at him curiously. His, what? Yurio’s pause hints at a complication in history—maybe between him and Victor, or just Victor’s. But Yuuri knows better than to press him, letting the silence stretch between them as he waits patiently for Yurio to be ready to talk again.

Not being one to go out of his way to interact with people, Yuuri’s spent many social situations watching them. With years of practice, he’s learned if he looks long enough, he starts to see past the social mask of manners, jokes, and go-to reactions.

He starts to see what makes up their layers, and how they’re put together. If he looks even longer, and he sees where they hurt, and how they hide it. Watching Victor and Yurio is no different from watching everyone else.

They’ve been with him a few days now and Yuuri’s starting to see their different layers, with little slips from their usual characters; Victor showing a sincerity through his skating that’s otherwise overshadowed by his default exuberance, and Yurio showing an insightfulness that’s hidden behind his aggression and quick temper.

“I’ve known him most of my life.” Yurio speaks again, carefully. “He’s scared to use something real as motivation. It’s risky. He knows real risk equals real hurt. So he keeps things playful. He focuses on the fun aspect of skating. The challenge. The thrill. It’s like he rejects the concept of discipline.”

“I used to look up to him,” he mutters.

“Used to?” Yuuri asks.

Yurio gives him a sharp glance, before turning to glare at Victor, who’s finishing up the routine with a spin combination.

“You have your ‘Protocol One,’ and I have mine.”

 

* * *

 

They finish their first training week without any major incidents. The bickering is an unavoidable constant, and there are a few slip-ups on the ice, Makkachin and Pyocha choose to sleep in Yuuri’s room one night—he earns a drawn-out sulk-fest from their abandoned owners the next day—but other than that, it was a success. They earned their weekend scot-free.

After Friday’s training, Yuuri nagged his apprentices until they were cooled down, fed, freshly showered, and ready for bed. The nagging may have been due to a complete act of impish pettiness, but it was the only way Yuuri was sure they weren’t going to bother him for the rest of the evening. If they could annoy him to the point of not wanting to see either of their faces at the end of the day, he could do the same to them.

Yuuri’s back in the safety of his room when he texts Phichit:  _Hey. How’s the Worlds prep treating you? You in Tokyo yet?_

Barely five seconds after Yuuri presses ‘send,’ the phone rings—

**Phichit Chulanont is calling…**

“Why hello my darling mister~” Comes the lively greeting from the other line.

“Hey Phich—you can’t keep calling me ‘mister’! I’m not that much older than you, you know,” Yuuri fake-argues.

“But oh ancient one, how wrong you are! Our births are but many seasons and many moons apart—”

Yuuri cuts him off to counter with, “How many, exactly?”

There’s a pause. Yuuri suspects he’s legitimately trying to figure out the numbers.

“Damn, that’s not fair—you  _know_  I suck at math!” Phichit complains, abandoning the Shakespearean bit. “Anyway, what’s up with you?”

“What’s up with me?” Yuuri repeats. “I texted you?”

“Oh right sorry haha,” Phichit says before he launches into a detailed narrative of the trip to Tokyo, what his hotel was like, how Ciao Ciao’s doing, how his Worlds training has been going ( _“One week to go, so exciting!”_ ), the stats of the Worlds competitors, and the latest skating gossip.

Yuuri listens to Phichit, interjecting with a few questions and affirmatives, until Phichit eventually says, “So, how are  _you_  doing?”

Yuuri replies with a dry sardonic laugh.

“That bad?” says Phichit

“These kids,” he sighs, remembering all the events over the past few days. “These kids are  _complicated_.”

Phichit, sensing a brood coming on, says, “Well, honey, if you used protection like I told you so, we wouldn’t have this problem in the first place!”

Yuuri barks out a laugh, and he shoots back, “Are you even sure they’re my kids? Goodness  _knows_  you’ve been sniffing around that Giacometti man!”

“Why, I never!” he exclaims with a poor rendition of an American southern accent.

“You’re such a weirdo,” says Yuuri affectionately, thankful for the change in mood.

“You’re welcome,” Phichit says.

Yuuri gets into his own narrative much later, after a few more overly dramatic conversations with Phichit. He mentions Victor and Yurio’s penchant for riling each other up for no apparent reason, and Phichit responds with a snort. He later delves into the more serious topics, mostly on the complexities he discovers in getting to know his apprentices. It’s sort of exciting and interesting, he comments as an afterthought. But mostly he’s worried about how he’s going to handle everything when their internal complications get in the way of their goals—he’s yet to master that himself.

The conversation with Phichit ends with a funny anecdote of getting Victor and Yurio out of bed for their first-ever morning training. They say their good-byes and turn in for the night.

Their next conversation is the following weekend when Yuuri receives a phone call from Phichit during the Worlds after-party. The background noise is a mishmash of EDM, Phichit is drunk off his ass, and Yuuri can hear a little bit of Christophe screaming something along the lines of “I’m too sexy for my shirt~.”

Phichit is yelling something about winning silver (which they all had watched him earn through the live broadcast), and that Chris won gold but is mad about it because Yuuri wasn’t there. He offers Phichit a sincere congratulations and earns a loving “awww thanks mister” slur in response. The rest of the conversation is virtually unintelligible, but Yuuri stays on the line until Phichit—and Chris—is ready to hang up, bidding him a drunken “fare thee well, my sweet-ass prince!!!”

 

* * *

  

After the initial shock of what seemed like over-the-top,  _come-hither_  flirting from the first night, it takes Yuuri almost three weeks to realize that Victor is naturally Touchy-Feely™.

With the exception of the banquet room incident, everything else seems like an uncontrollable habit: little touches to his arm or shoulder when they’re talking, or a tug on his sleeve when Victor has a question, or the press of their shoulders when Victor’s showing him something on his phone. Yuuri is trying to take it all in stride since it seems harmless but if he’s going to be honest, it’s still  _really_   _weird_.

By the end of the third week, he was starting to get used to it, but today the touchy habits were annoying. Today, Yuuri’s temper was being tested, with Victor and Yurio fighting more than usual and Victor pestering him with a whole new batch of unwanted personal questions.

He cuts the training day short, after a mere hour into their afternoon session, hoping an early dismissal will help boost morale. On their way home, they make small talk, and everything goes well until he makes the mistake of asking about Victor’s version of Stammi Vicino.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Victor starts, falling into step with Yuuri.

Yurio checks out of the conversation to walk ahead, headphones clamped over his ears, music at full blast.

“The original choreography is great but it seems more like a goodbye to love,” Victor says thoughtfully.

“I thought it would be nice to change it to welcoming love!” Victor declares, turning to look at Yuuri expectantly.

Whenever Yuuri talked about the theme of Stammi Vicino, he always only said it was “on my love.” Privately, he considered it a goodbye to love, a tribute to his acceptance of the solitude that seemed to be the price of his career. The concept was so personal that he never discussed it with Mari or Minako. It was unnerving, to say the least, that Victor picked up on it, since he was essentially a stranger. It’s like Yuuri’s hand was forced in a game of vulnerability, and he’s apprehensively uncomfortable with the progression of their conversation.

“Don’t you think it’s much better that way?” Victor purposely moves closer to Yuuri. “Isn’t love much better when it’s welcomed?”

Yuuri feels the pinpricks of unease escalate to a pang in his gut. He makes to move away for a little breathing room but Victor weaves an arm around his waist.

“ _Don’t_!” Yuuri snaps angrily, flinching away from Victor.

The flash of hurt on Victor’s face makes Yuuri’s ears burn in shame; he didn’t mean to lose his temper. He apologizes with a quick bow and the rest of the walk back is spent in tense silence. Yuuri accompanies Victor and Yurio to the entrance of the inn before abruptly excusing himself and disappearing for the rest of the day.

He returns to the rink and falls into a mindless routine while he mulls over the events of the past month. He’s been so busy, he hasn’t had time to absorb his situation. But now it all rushes to him at once, a smothering force of the combined pressure of his career, demands of his unexpected mentorship, and consequences of his success.

His entire life was a process of realizing that solitude was an inevitability that came hand-in-hand with the pursuit of his passion. He’s made his choices and come to terms with it, content with letting loneliness fill the space in place of a partner and building a wall to keep it safe.

But here comes this man-child, intent on furthering his getting-to-know-each-other agenda, threatening the peace and chipping at the walls with his tactile habits and weirdly personal questions. Yuuri has tried to be patient but Victor just keeps going, trying to push past boundaries, into a space he isn’t invited to and Yuuri’s had enough.

Then there’s the preexisting issue of his career, a pressure mounted on his head like an iron crown of thorns—a burden for him to bear the moment he was revered as Legend. It’s a pain he’s learned to live with; a heaviness on his head that stands in perfect balance on the hollowness in his chest.

And now, he’s forced to make room for more things to worry about, with two apprentices trusting him to control the course of their careers. It’s an added burden that throws everything off-balance and he’s dangerously close to crumbling under the weight of it all.

It’s all just too much.

Yuuri stops skating for a moment, struggling against the unwanted wave of emotions. He closes his eyes—inhale for five seconds, hold for five seconds, exhale for five seconds. Again.

 

* * *

 

Victor finds Mari seated in the common room, on her break and playing with Pyocha. She’s waving a ribbon around while Pyocha runs in frantic circles, trying to snatch the end.

“Hi Mari. Do you know where Yuuri is?” he says.

“He’s always either at Minako’s or the Ice Castle. Why, isn’t he here?”

“No. He, uh—” He sheepishly fidgets with tail of his braid. “—left suddenly after practice.

She gives him a look, an eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“I may have upset him,” he confesses meekly.

Mari chuckles knowingly.

“Yeah, try the Ice Castle or Minako’s place. I’m sure you’ll find him there,” she says, smiling at him reassuringly. “If it helps, he doesn’t stay mad long so I think you’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Mari.” Victor flashes her a grateful smile before leaves.

They came from Ice Castle so Victor decides to stop by Minako’s place first. When she opens the door and invites him in, he sees only Yuko and Takeshi sitting at the table, drinks in hand.

Yuuri obviously isn’t there but a bottle of beer is shoved into Victor's hand and he’s plunked down between Yuko and Takeshi before he can excuse himself. There’s idle small talk for a while, and a mention of Yuuri has Victor asking about him, followed by a condensed recounting what happened earlier.

“You freaked him out,” Takeshi comments, teasingly nudging Victor.

“Is that why he left suddenly?” Victor says, perplexed. Surely he hadn’t been  _that_  pushy.

“Yeah, he’s always been an anxious guy so sometimes when things set him off he has to isolate himself for a while to work it out in his head,” Minako explains with a wave of her hand. 

“He came as far as he did because he always had a safe place to practice while he worked out whatever was bothering him. He’s no genius but he works hard and truly loves skating.” She stops there, getting up to grab a new bottle.

“Ice Castle lets him skate whenever he wants, and he’s been going there to practice by himself since forever,” Yuko adds. “As a kid, he didn’t even play with his friends because he was skating so much.”

“To be fair, he never really had any friends to play with--he just had you, me, Mari, and Minako. He’s not great at putting himself out there when he’s off the ice,” says Takeshi.

He turns to face Victor, becoming more solemn while he explains, “The thing about Yuuri is that he’s naturally shy and prefers to be left alone. The few times he’s ever tried reaching out to anyone for something more than friendship, he’s been hurt. So he takes to being detached from people and has a hard time letting them in. This coaching thing is a challenge because this means he’s forced to take people under his wing and let them in.”

“A lot has happened over the years and his anxiety doesn’t make things easy. Even his love for skating hasn’t made things easy. It made relationships fall apart and there’s a pressure to excel beyond where he thinks his limits are and it scares him,” Minako adds quietly.

“That’s why he took the break?” says Victor, face dawning with realization.

“That’s why he took the break,” Minako confirms. “I don’t want this to be the end for him.”

“I don’t either. He seems pretty set about closing himself off from the world but I’m hoping you two will help him see otherwise.” Yuko says, thoughtfully tracing the rim of her glass.

The conversation reaches an end and Takeshi stands, saying it’s getting late and they’ve got to get back to the triplets. Victor stands as well, to continue his search for his missing coach.

He thanks them before he leaves and starts the way back to the inn. Halfway en route, he changes his mind. Victor tries the Ice Castle again and finds Yuuri, deep in thought while skates the Stammi Vicino routine. Victor stands off to the side, unnoticed, to quietly watch him. Victor might’ve pushed too far today in an effort to get them closer, and he feels terrible. He wonders if Yuuri will ever let him in.

He turns to leave but a movement catches his eye. As Yuuri goes into the second half, Victor notices he incorporated the adjustments Victor made to the choreography. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but it doesn’t stop Victor from hoping that it does.

 

* * *

  

Things are back to normal the next morning, much to the relief of everyone. Victor and Yurio just finished their usual skating drills when Yuuri calls them to stand by the sound system.

“So we’re at our fifth week, which means it’s time to work on your short programs.” He announces.

Victor grins with enthusiasm at the news, and even Yurio lets slip a small satisfied smile.

“I’m going to show you two programs I’ve been working on: Eros and Agape.”

Yuuri motions for them to get off the ice as he hooks his phone up to the speakers.

Victor and Yurio watch eagerly at the boards while Yuuri prepares to skate.

He shows them the Eros routine, a fast-paced guitar and violin instrumental that involves equally fast footwork and sensual choreography. The jumps seem challenging and the overall effect of the routine stays true to the theme: sexual love.

After a short break, he shows the Agape routine, a slower, more innocent-sounding ballad with graceful, looping choreography and a series of complex jumps and spins. The routine sports a gentle strength for its theme: unconditional love.

Yuuri calls Victor and Yurio to join him on the ice. Exhilarated, is the word Yuuri would use to describe them as the two make a worryingly speedy beeline to the center of the rink.

“The programs look good?” He inquires, genuinely curious and worried if he’ll meet their standards, but the looks on their faces are enough to make him feel secure about the choreography.

“I call dibs on Eros!” Yurio snarls, elbowing Victor in the ribs. “The Agape one is so not my style.”

“Ah well, sorry but I’m choosing the program assignments for you.” Yuuri says, inwardly braces himself for the onslaught. “Yurio gets Agape, and Victor gets Eros.”

Victor throws his fist in the air with a triumphant “Ha!”

Yurio looks about two seconds away from murder but Yuuri raises a warning eyebrow at him. Other than the irritated vein that ticks at his temple and the expression of complete distaste, he keeps still. Yuuri sends a quick thankful prayer to the Universe for this miracle.

“I can totally do Eros better than Yurio,” Victor gloats shamelessly. “I’ll show you Eros, coach!”

With a suggestive toss of his hair, Victor slides up to Yuuri, right into his personal bubble. He cups Yuuri’s face, boldly tracing Yuuri’s lips with his thumb. Yuuri promptly smacks him away with a furious blush and has half a mind to let Yurio kill him.

“Victor!” he near-screeches. “ _That was so inappropriate_!”

Oh dear gods,  _this child._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you! Nice to see you again :D
> 
> Much thanks to my team for chap 2:  
> Jacquielou - for friendship during randomly stressful times bec life :))  
> Kiara - for being incredibly patient and kind >:D<  
> Cassi - for indirectly keeping me inspired by linking me to all the cool fics she finds :D
> 
> Holla if you spotted the Bunheads reference in this chap and the Community reference in chap 1 :))
> 
> Thanks again for dropping by and hope you lovely folks have a great day!
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: changed Toshiyo to Toshiya and Dasha to Pyocha. Also fixed a few timeline-related things and revamped a few paragraphs.
> 
> P.S. I'd love to know what you think so far?? if that's ok with you?
> 
>  
> 
> (note: this chap was revamped on May 14, 2017)


	3. Eros and Agape?! Face-Off! Onsen on Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victor at 27: I am a beautiful blooming young man in the prime of life!  
> Yuuri at 27: I am an old man. Get off my lawn.

Victor learns the hard way that Eros is not a fun routine.

“Connect with the theme—feel the music!” Yuuri says for the five-hundredth time.

Victor repeats the sequence with what he hopes is a more alluring arch of his back and reach of his fingers—only for Yuuri to reply with a disapproving frown. Victor tries again; this time with an even sultrier sway of his hips. Yuuri _did_ say Eros was about sex appeal, so Victor throws in a wink for good measure.

Yuuri hides his face in his hands in utter distress—clearly a bad sign. Victor scrapes to a halt, hands on his hips as he waits for critique.

Yuuri lifts his face to comment, “You can’t just ‘Giacometti’ it.”

Victor cocks his head to the side.

“I know it looks fun, but that’s not what’s needed here,” Yuuri explains patiently, despite a telling, irritated twitch in his eye.

“What do you _mean_?!” Victor throws his hands in the air.

It’s been _days_ of practicing the same thirty seconds of the Eros track. And no matter how many times Victor thinks he’s doing it right, he’s still not _doing it right._ He raises his arms like he’s supposed to, he arches his back when he’s supposed to, and he does the spins like he’s supposed to and _when_ he’s supposed to. Everything he does is on time with the music and executed properly.

Just not in a way Yuuri Katsuki finds up-to-par.

And it’s not like Yuuri’s instruction is any help; he communicates ideas in gestures and half-abstract concepts (like, “ _don’t ‘Giacometti’ it”_ ) and _how_ a movement feels, as opposed to _what_ the movement is. Victor supposes the logic is perfectly reasonable in Yuuri’s head, but he’s sure as hell not making any sense to Victor.

Victor has always been kinetically gifted; the agility in his limbs came as naturally as breathing. It never took him long to execute complex step sequences or jumps—five tries to get the hang of it, three more tries to perfect it. Victor’s lightning-fast learning curve kept him leagues ahead of everyone else; his exceptional talent resulted in a collection of easy golds.

That same exceptional talent had one major downside: it made him reckless. He half-assed or skipped over conditioning exercises because he never felt he needed it, choosing instead to improve upon his technique before his body was ready. He constantly cut straight to adding an unexpected rotation whenever it struck his fancy. He learned (and landed) his first quad toe-loop on a whim during a competition. Yakov was mad as fuck.

“Just—” Yuuri frowns, running a hand across his nape as he struggles to find a solution “—just try again and I’ll see if I can catch where it seems off.”

Well, that was helpful. Thanks coach.

It takes all of Victor’s willpower not to pull his hair out in frustration.

He performs the sequence several more times, experimenting each time in the hope of hitting Yuuri’s mark—like a shot in the dark. But even after the nth time he does it, with the nth combination of adjustments, Yuuri remains underwhelmed.

Yuuri tells him to do it one more time and Victor groans. If his vanity didn’t have such a strong influence, he would’ve ripped his ponytail from his scalp and used it to strangle Yuuri a long time ago.

The pressure from Yuuri’s dissatisfaction is entirely alien to Victor.

Critique is an unfamiliar concept when it’s directed at him. Yakov may have yelled at him by way of communication to reprimand his laziness or attitude, but Yakov never yelled about Victor’s skating unless he forced a jump he didn’t properly train for. He’s accustomed to cutting corners and easy wins, and the paradox of him doing it right but not doing it right is fuelling his already-blazing impatience.

Needless to say, Victor is Stressed™.

Victor makes a noise of protest as Yuuri unceremoniously glides to the other side of the rink, checking on Yurio’s progress. He trails after Yuuri, refusing to be abandoned in his miserable, thirty-second practice loop of hell.

“Show me what you have so far,” Yuuri says, ignoring the way Victor’s pulling at his jacket to steal the attention back. “From the beginning, and until just before you make the first jump.”

Yurio nods and skids into position. As the count starts, he glides through the steps like a music box ballerina; perfect, mechanical grace in each reach, dip, and turn. An outsider watching would’ve called the performance flawless, but Yuuri sees it for what it is: it isn’t Agape, a flowing expression of unconditional love. It’s a series of movements, devoid of any emotion, calculated to leave an impression of fluidity.

Yurio finishes the segment and looks at Yuuri for feedback. At the sight of Yuuri’s knitted brows, Yurio automatically repeats the sequence with a different variation. He tries again.

And again, and again.

“Okay, one more time,” Yuuri says, after Yurio’s sixth rundown.

“ _What_ am I doing wrong?!” Yurio snaps.

“It’s not what you’re _doing_ , it's how you’re _feeling_.” Yuuri tries to explain, prying Victor’s fingers from where it holds his sleeve in a twist. “Think about the emotion behind Agape and try to show it in your skating.”

Yurio tries to express his frustration further and fails; his words lose their form and come across as undignified unintelligible sputtering, but Yuuri gets the message.

Victor laughs—it’s funnier when the scolding is happening to someone else—and Yurio’s attention snaps to him. Yuuri quickly hooks Victor to his jacket pocket and tows him away with a scolding (“ _Really, Victor, would it kill you to act your age?”_ ) before Yurio gets coherent enough to try to smash Victor’s head in with his skate.

Yurio is equally Stressed™.

Because of their shared status as the only boy in their respective families, Victor found a brother-figure in Yurio. They became instant friends despite an age difference of eight years. Much to Yakov’s despair, Yurio had followed in Victor’s footsteps when it came to training habits. “Little Victor,” they had called tiny seven-year old Yurio when he first joined the rink, trailing after Victor like a duckling all throughout his first year. Victor included Yurio in whatever he did during training hours: skating, eating snacks, and sharing in quiet worship for Yuuri Katsuki, who had just started his ascent to greatness.

Yurio was very similar to Victor in many aspects: naturally gifted on ice, a fast-learner, and aggressively reckless. Yurio also attempted his first quad on the spot, during one of the junior competitions when he was half-greedy for more points and half-eager to show-off. And Victor was right there; cheering supportively from the boards as Yurio smugly landed the quad Salchow.

Yakov was Not Happy.

Over time, Victor noticed the evolution in Yurio’s habits. Shortly after his tenth birthday, he started cross training with ballet to provide a new backbone for his skating routines. The rigid structure of his classes taught him the value of a strict training regimen. He began to view Victor’s free-spirited training style and lack of discipline with disappointment. It seemed to alter his attachment to Victor overnight. Although their bond remained intact—they still spent time together, and Victor sometimes picked Yurio up from ballet class when his grandpa was busy or feeling unwell—it was clear to Victor that Yurio no longer saw him through an idolizing lens.

The time Victor was first labeled as Russia’s Rising Star was around the same time their relationship started to strain. Yurio, determined to step out of Victor’s shadow, struggled to lose the nickname “Little Victor” and make a name for himself. He became more serious with his training, almost angry in his desperation to catch up to Victor, while Victor remained stagnantly and effortlessly successful.

 

* * *

 

The fifth time Yuuri corrects Yurio halfway through the second part of his program, Yurio snaps.

Through training, Yuuri learns how exceptional Yurio is as a skater and the immense potential of his career. But the range of his performance is expressed through two extremes: clinical, empty perfection to robotic degree or, obsessive, brutal ambition that stains his performances with a power-hungry air.

Yuuri also learns that Yurio’s stamina falters due to straining for perfection in the first half of the program, which in turn causes his ambition to seep into desperation in the latter half.

“Yurio, you have to ease up,” Yuuri says. “You’re putting too much power in the first half, that’s why you struggle to maintain control in the second half.”

“I am _not_ struggling!” Yurio snaps, pissed at having to repeatedly receive critique despite moving through the program flawlessly. “I’m doing it exactly the way you showed me! You’re not making _any_ sense, old man!”

Yurio was practically snarling now, his annoyance bubbling up in a smattering of foul-sounding Russian curses. He furiously slices his way center ice to repeat the steps. Yuuri doesn’t respond, choosing instead to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation, a habit he’s developed over the last few months. He did not sign up for this shit.

“Okay, I think we’re done for the day.” Yuuri says, shooing a grumbling Yurio and a pouting Victor off the ice to start their cool-down exercises. He decides to decompress with a solid half-hour of mindless footwork.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri shepherds Victor and Yurio back home for the weekend. After yet another week of unsuccessful attempts to find the focus of their programs, Friday night has Victor and Yurio moping in the onsen, towels draped over their foreheads like a sad frame over their equally sad faces. It’s been a while since either of them had this much trouble with learning a program.

They both spend the weekend in sour dispositions, which manifests in contrasting behaviors—neither of which are good.

On Saturday, Victor expels his energy by taking it upon himself to “help out” by cheerfully greeting (harassing) all of Yu-topia’s guests with his impressively appalling Japanese—phrases he picked up from listening to way too many Arashi songs—until Hiroko derails his rallying to help in the kitchen (“ _Come on, Vicchan, let’s go!_ ”). He takes the bait and abandons his quest, excitedly following after her while she teaches him how to make sukiyaki and reviews him on his basic phrases.

Yurio, on the other hand, funnels his energy into a full-blown teenaged angst tantrum—communicating purely through violent gesticulations and snarling at anyone who so much as _breathes_ in his general direction. He aimlessly stomps around the common areas in a tirade of supreme grumpiness until Yuuri finds Pyocha and deposits her in his arms. His mood instantly loses its sharp edges. He settles on quietly sulking in the corner, Pyocha purring in his lap while he flips through his phone.

On Sunday, Victor and Yurio, completely burnt out from stress and tantrums, hang around the common room in various catatonic states: Yurio, lying flat on his back, alternates between listlessly staring at the TV—which isn’t even on—and staring at the ceiling; and Victor, eyes half shut and knees drawn to his chest, presses crown of his head firmly against Yuuri’s shoulder blade.

Mari and Minako keep Yuuri company with a few cups of coffee and idle chatter; occasionally glancing at Victor’s spot by his side, and wiggling suggestive eyebrows at Yuuri, who ignores them and continues their conversation like _mature adults_.

 

* * *

 

The next few days show no signs of drastic improvement, adding tension to the despondent mood that’s settled over the last two weeks of fruitless efforts to “feel the theme.”

“Victor, your performance lacks authenticity. You have to focus on one thing that makes you feel passion—”

“Can’t I just do Agape? I’d be better at Agape,” Victor interrupts, before breaking into the first thirty seconds of the Agape routine.

Yuuri watches him for a moment, and well—he’s not wrong. Victor can do Agape; he captures Agape in beautiful flowing grace as he performs the first step sequence. At first, Yuuri is mildly impressed by the mature sincerity Victor brings out in the step sequence—it’s the same emotion Victor used when he performed his free skate a few weeks ago—but watching it for a second time, Yuuri realizes it’s a staged serenity. Which is, at best, a very good imitation of how unconditional love is expressed through skating, but it’s clearly not the real thing.

“Agape isn’t your routine, Victor,” Yuuri reminds after Victor finishes the sequence. “Think of your motivation—your passion as the core of Eros. What’s something you’re passionate about?”

“It’s not that easy!” Victor snaps, “Tell me—what’s one thing that motivates _you_ to skate?”

Yuuri immediately replies with, “Katsudon.” Which, frankly, prompts more confusion than clarity.

The response is a stunned silence; Victor gapes like a fish and Yurio pulls a face of both confusion and disbelief.

“What? You asked.” Yuuri shrugs, disturbingly unperturbed for someone who just admitted his career was partially dependent on a donburi dish. “Katsudon is my favourite food, but I couldn’t eat it often because of the diet. Aside from other things, the promise of katsudon after winning gold was good motivation too.”

“Why, _why_ are you like this?” Victor wails, dramatically clinging to the boards as all his life choices are suddenly thrown into question. “Is this who I’ve been looking up to all these years? The basis of my idol’s drive and skill, the reason why I’ve been skating all my life, the meaning of _life itself_ —all boils down to katsudon?!”

Yurio snickers— _“Katsudon—pffft”_ —instead of contributing anything helpful.

Yuuri decides to be equally unhelpful by ignoring Victor’s mini existential crisis and moving on to critique his jumps.

Despite being absolutely useless at teaching them how to capture the emotions for their routines, Yuuri’s redeeming factor is how he teaches jumps. He has an intimate knowledge of the mechanics of each jump, from the simple rundown of how limbs should move in relation to each other, to the complex dynamics of weight shifting and which muscles need to flex. And like Minako, he has an understanding of exactly where their movements go wrong with pinpoint precision and can guide them into a better jump almost instantly.

Victor has proven he _can_ get jumps done beautifully; his high skill in landing difficult jumps has an ease that could rival any seasoned champion. His current repertoire—the triples (toe-loop, loop, Salchow, flip, Lutz, Axel) and the quads (toe-loop, loop)—are all executed with polished technical precision, wound tight for the rise and steady-smooth on the landing.

Yuuri learns Victor’s weakness lies in how he chooses to combine the jumps, and when to perform them. Instead of the planned triple-double axel combination, of which Victor is perfectly capable, he pushes the difficulty up to a quad-triple toe loop—for absolutely no reason other than “because it looked more fun.”

Instead of spacing out his jumps evenly throughout his program, Victor will try to cram most of it in the second half, an ill-advised trade-off of stamina for more points. This unfortunate habit messes with the current limits of his body, resulting in, if he’s lucky, a wobbly landing or a touchdown, or if he’s unlucky, a fantastically painful flub.         

“My jumps?!” Victor switches from doleful to offended at Yuuri’s list of criticisms. “What about my jumps? I’ll have you know my jumps are _spectacular_.”

Yurio interjects to make a jab at Victor’s already fragile ego, “If by ‘jumps,’ you mean ‘flubs’ then yes—your _jumps_ are _totally_ spectac—”

“You have to mind your jumps,” Yuuri cuts in. “Stop upping the difficulty before you’re ready. There’s no point if you can’t perform them.”

“But I _can_ do it,” Victor insists. “I can do it just like you do it! I know I can do your quad-triple combo or at least your signature quad flip—”

“Not until you put in the necessary training for it,” Yuuri says firmly.

Victor gets banished to practicing jump fundamentals on the other side of the rink until Yuuri deems him ready to advance. He turns to Yurio in the meantime—who’s trying to egg Victor into a fight with a smirk—corralling his attention to the Agape routine before he can cause trouble.

He makes Yurio run through the step sequences more times than Yurio finds necessary, on account of lacking the proper feeling.

“What do you mean I’m not feeling it?” Yurio growls his impatience. “Agape is all about grace. And my grace is _on-fucking-point,_ Katsudon!”

“You are graceful,” Yuuri says kindly, unthreatened by Yurio’s spitting temper. “But you’re not conveying the right emotion for Agape. It’s too… mechanical.”

Yurio snorts in disagreement.

“Think of someone who reminds you of unconditional love,” Yuuri suggests.

“Gross.” Yurio grimaces at any thoughts of love—unconditional or otherwise.

“What is it with both of you and your lack of creative vision?!” Yuuri says, throwing his hands up in defeat.

Victor squawks indignantly, “How did I get dragged into that lecture? I’m _all the way over here!”_ He gestures wildly at the distance between them to prove a point.

Yuuri lets out a long-suffering groan.

“ _Fine_. Both of you—to the stands, now,” he says.

Victor and Yurio join Takeshi, Yuko, and the triplets in the stands. Yuuri pulls up to where his phone rests on the boards, and starts the entire song from the beginning.

When Yuuri first showed them the routines it was more of a technical tutorial, not a performance. His movements were graceful but neutral, with no real feeling behind it—like a physical enumeration of steps they would have to remember. He was hoping a neutral portrayal would give them space for their own interpretations, but he was clearly mistaken. He’s tried explaining the feeling they need to capture over and over again, and in many different ways, but it just hasn’t achieved the desired effect.

Now, fed up with his apprentices’ lack of emotional investment, he’s forced to _show_ them what he means.

Yuuri starts with Agape. He begins to move with the opening cadence of the ballad, lifting a hand to the heavens, and then swooping down to caress his face before he makes several loose, balletic spirals. The following step sequence has Yuuri carving loops across the ice in a dance of graceful reaches, dips, and arches. He spares a glance toward Yurio and sees him watching, face rapt with new understanding of the routine. Yuuri flows into the rest of the program, sustaining the gentle strength and serenity, through the combination spins and jump combos, all the way to the final pose.

When the music finishes, Takeshi, Yuko, and the triplets, sound their support in zealous woops and applause.

Yuuri takes short break before moving onto the Eros routine. As he’s standing center ice waiting for the music to start, there’s a noticeable change in his demeanor—his expression transforming from the gentleness of Agape to the fire of Eros.

Yuuri takes his cue from the first plucks of the guitar instrumental, circling his arms in a sensual trace of his body before tossing his head back with an expression that beckons to the bedroom. The movement immediately sets the tone—which Victor would later describe as “sex on ice”—a complete 180 from the virgin-purity of Agape.

Yuuri makes brief eye contact with Victor while he performs the notoriously difficult step sequence to make it clear that what’s needed is an intense passionate intimacy, and not the showy quality of performance-flirting. The arch of his back recounts a pleasured bend into a lover’s touch, rather than a display of staged sexiness—the push of his hips, the mimetic sway of fitting into the shape of a lover, rather than an invitation to grind on the dance floor.

“There’s so much Eros in this routine I think it might impregnate me!” Victor swoons.

He immediately receives a whip on the shin from one of Yurio’s blade guards.

The Nishigori family cheer after Yuuri winds down with the last combination spin and final pose.

Takeshi sounds his support with an enthusiastic, “Wooo, sexy! Take me now!”

Yuuri laughs, waving off the catcall as he glides toward them.

He turns to his apprentices and says, “Okay, do you have any questions?”

Victor and Yurio are speechless.

Victor is first to break the silence with, “Ha! Yours doesn’t look anything like that, Yurio. At best you look like a chicken.”

Yurio wields his blade guards threateningly and is about to escalate into a fight but in a stroke of genius and a fit of desperation, Yuuri sends them to a temple to “get in touch with their programs.”

It’s really just code for “get some chill.”

 

* * *

 

“You sent them to a temple?!” Phichit says, practically cackling with mirth through the laptop screen. “I can’t believe you sent them to a temple!”

“I also took away their katsudon privileges because they kept fighting so much. I enforced my old rule: no katsudon until they win a skating competition.” Yuuri says, head falling with a thump on his desk.

Phichit gasps.“Not their katsudon! They love katsudon!”

“It’s what they deserved,” Yuuri grumbles. “Yurio calls me ‘Katsudon’ now.”

Phichit lets out a particularly attractive snort in response.

Yuuri presses his forehead into the table, before letting out a huff that fades into a long whine. He sits up. “I didn’t sign up for any of this, Phichit.”

Yuuri is exhausted. Everything Victor and Yurio do together always somehow turns into a competition. Who can do the most reps during their calisthenics? How many times can they get an approving nod from Minako during ballet class? Who can complete the most skating drills without flubbing? The list is endless.

Lately though, it seems like their new thing is: who make Yuuri’s eye do the stress twitch?

Earlier that week was especially taxing—when their antics reached an all-new high score at their latest fight. It started when Victor, who was actually trying to practice, kept slipping into Yurio’s space and causing several almost-harmful collisions. To Victor’s credit, he wasn’t doing it on purpose and even apologized a few times, but Yurio was having none of it.

“This is what happens when you have no discipline!” Yurio hissed after receiving a particularly painful elbow to the chest. “Flubbing all the jumps, getting in my space!”

Patience was running on fumes due to neither of them expressing the program themes and everyone was getting testy.

“ _What_ is your problem, you little twerp?” Victor lashed out. “I _said_ , I was sorry!”

Yurio sneered, “All the sorry’s in the world won’t fix your pathetic jumps. The _talentless_ Darling of Russia is nothing but a pretty face.”

“Excuse you, I’m both pretty and talented!” Victor purposely whipped his hair in Yurio’s face as he turned, skating back into his designated zone.

“You can’t even land a quad Salchow half the time because you’re always distracted. Just _retire_ already, you idiot Barbie!”

“Well your hair sucks!” Victor fired back.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Yurio bellowed.

Yuuri debated whether to stop the fight from escalating but it was too late—the bickering turned their end-of-training-camp culminating showcase into an end-of-training-camp culminating showdown. Before Yuuri could put the breaks on this runaway train, the news was on the internet and officially dubbed the “Onsen on Ice” competition. And, thanks to the triplets, there were mock-up of posters all over twitter in a span of twenty minutes.

Which is why Yuuri is also Stressed™.

“—and it gets out to the press and now there’s a big hullabaloo. Thanks a lot, you damn brats,” Yuuri finishes with a groan.

“‘Hullabaloo?’ How old are you exactly, eighty?” Phichit teases, reaching off-screen for his phone. “Hang on, I’ve gotta tweet this.”

Phichit taps out his tweet as he reads, “Excited to see what the ‘hullabaloo’ is all about! Hashtag Onsen-on-Ice, hashtag hullabaloo, hashtag old-man-Yuuri.” Phichit twists to take a selfie of him and Yuuri. “Okay, now smile!”

“Haha, very funny,” Yuuri says dryly. He smiles anyway.

“Seriously though, I don’t know how you’re surviving that,” Phichit continues, making the final adjustments to the photo and tweeting it. “I would’ve thrown _at least_ one of them out the window by now.”

Yuuri laughs, “You have no idea how tempting that is.”

“So this ‘hullabaloo’—it’s a legit competition now?” says Phichit.

“Oh, yes it is. I have many regrets,” Yuuri laments. “I think the triplets even have medals prepared and stuff.”

Yuuri recounts the aftermath of the fight. Yurio had screamed the challenge at Victor, and Victor had accepted. Victor immediately drew up the terms of their winnings: if Yurio won, he would get to stay with Yuuri and train in Japan, while Victor returned to Yakov in Russia. Yurio had eagerly agreed with those terms before asking what Victor wanted if he won.

Yuuri had expected something ridiculous or at the very least something similar to Yurio’s conditions but Victor gets quiet, glancing at Yuuri, unsure.

“I want to get better at skating so I can keep winning, and keep eating katsudon with Yuuri,” he said, with uncharacteristically quiet determination.

“Aaaawwww, sounds like Victor has a little crush on you, mister!” Phichit coos.

“Among all the things it could be, I’m _pretty sure_ a crush isn’t one of it.” Yuuri rolls his eyes. Really, Phichit.

“ _Sure_ it isn’t.”

“Phichit—” Yuuri opens his mouth to argue but he catches sight of the time “—dang, I have to go. I have to pick them up at the waterfall.”

“ _You sent them to a waterfall?!_ ”

The last thing Phichit sees is Yuuri’s smug smile before the call ends. “Yep”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri arrives at the waterfall, bags in hand and Makkachin bounding happily by his side, just in time to see Victor and Yurio duck out from under the torrent, wet and tired. He waves them over to his spot by the trees while Makkachin runs off to explore. After he hands them their towels, shoes, and a change of clothes, he moves a short distance away to give them privacy while they change. There’s an air of contemplative silence—no sudden challenges or declarations of war. They towel off and shrug on warmer clothes.

Perhaps the waterfall was a good idea after all.

“Oi, Victor.”

Yurio nudges Victor’s ankle with his own. Victor turns to look at him but Yurio’s gaze is conveniently occupied by a scuffmark on his shoe.

“I’m tired,” Yurio says softly. There’s no edge to his tone. The statement wasn’t a demand; it was more of a request reminiscent of child talking to a parent.

“Okay,” Victor says simply, voice gentle. “Do you want to eat first? What you in the mood for?”

Yurio takes a moment before speaking softly again. “Maybe ramen.”

“Ramen sounds good,” Victor confirms, grinning.

Yuuri watches silently. In the two months they’ve been with him, he’s only seen them interact amicably a handful of times.

Their relationship wasn’t normal by any means; they choose to communicate with each other through a weird combination of challenges, snide comments, or outright quarrels. It was rare to see them like this—Yurio needing something and Victor stepping up to take care of him. Sometimes Yuuri forgets the differences in their ages—because they’re both so damn _immature_ —and the fact that they’ve known each other for half of Yurio’s life. Despite all the fighting, the bond between them is as good as family.

“Coach!” Victor calls out, slinging his arm around Yurio. Even more amazing, Yurio _lets him,_ with only a slight scowl. “Can we get ramen for lunch?”

“Sure, why not. There’s good ramen place near the Ice Castle. Do you remember Nagahama Ramen?” Yuuri asks, looking around for Makkachin while Yurio and Victor finish packing their bags.

Victor sounds an affirmation.

“Okay, head back to the car—I’ll get Makkachin.”

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, Yuuri, in what he denies as an act of guilt for sending them to the waterfall, surprises Victor and Yurio.

“Hey, do you guys want to look for costumes?” he says, as they’re helping clear the table.

“How—where? What seamstress is open this late?” Yurio says flatly.

“Online store?” supplies Victor.

“Actually, I was thinking we could look through my old stuff after we clean,” says Yuuri.

They both perk up, and clear the table like a hurricane, before dashing back to demand more details. After Yuuri makes them _swear_ not to take pictures or tell anyone (“ _No one. Not a soul. Especially the triplets.”_ ), he leads them to one of the storage rooms in the family wing.

Victor and Yurio stand at the doorway of the room, which they secretly rename as The Shrine™, staring in barely-contained awe at all of Yuuri’s skating paraphernalia. It’s several rows of open standing shelves filled with old trophies, medals, framed photos and certificates, skates and costumes, and other knickknacks, meticulously arranged and labeled according to year.

Yuuri had been beyond appalled when Mari, over a Skype call a few years ago, told him that their parents dedicated an entire storage room to display all his stuff. They had started, brimming with pride and missing their little boy, when Yuuri won his first GPF, and kept the collection growing with every souvenir and skating paraphernalia Yuuri would send to Hasetsu.

Yuuri, who was still in Detroit when he first received the news, was determined to take it down the moment he came home—it was an awful reminder all of his horrifyingly awkward past selves; all the mistakes of his dark past immortalized in a DIY museum. But after seeing the care they had put into it, he didn’t have the heart to ask them to put it back in boxes. His only consolation was that they agreed not to open the room to anyone else; his embarrassment could stay in the safety of the Katsuki family wing.

Victor and Yurio turn to Yuuri, wide-eyed in a silent beg for permission to start exploring. Yuuri waves them off with a laugh.

“Go ahead,” he says with an encouraging nod.

And they’re off, eagerly scouring through the racks of costumes and touching _everything_ with the barest restraint. Victor’s rummaging is stalled by a display of shiny baubles from Paris (2010, Trophée de France), while Yurio, clearly on a Mission, makes a beeline to the 2004-2006 section, quickly rifling through the costumes from Yuuri’s junior-to-senior division transition.

Yurio looks triumphant as he pulls out a costume from Yuuri’s last junior event, the 2005 Junior Worlds. The costume is a mostly opaque white bodysuit, with a wide ‘V’ of glittering sheer fabric in the torso’s front and back. A fleur-de-lis-inspired design whirls in two-toned silver along the hips and waist, and large, bedazzled feather accents fan out at the shoulders and wrists.

Yurio holds up the suit and looks at Yuuri for an affirmative before carefully stowing the costume in its garment bag. He dashes out, with a quick, muttered thank you ( _“Thanks, Katsudon._ ”), to put the costume in safety of his closet before returning to idly browse the rest of the display.

Victor wanders through the rows of shelves, taking his time to admire all the little trinkets Yuuri brought or sent home from his travels abroad—a decorative plate from the Netherlands, 2004 Junior Worlds; miniature wooden horses from Bejing, 2006 Cup of China; several quirky snow globes from Quebec, 2012 Grand Prix Final. Somewhere along the 2008 section, Victor finally comes across the perfect costume, lifting it from the rack to inspect the details.

It’s the free skate costume from Yuuri’s first Grand Prix Final; a simple skin-tight black suit with a Chinese collar. The costume has a single sheer panel running in a vague zigzag down the front and back of the torso, with several crystal accents near the right shoulder and across the waist.

Yuuri walks over to Victor and muses, “Interesting choice. That’s the costume from—”

“—from your first GPF. Free skate.” Victor finishes, trying to shake the costume free from where the netting had snagged on the garment bag’s zipper.

“Yep,” Yuuri smiles, reaching over to help Victor untangle the suit and put it back in the bag.

“2008. I remember,” Victor adds shyly.

“Ooohh, what do we have here?” Mari appears at the door with Pyocha in the circle of her arm, hitched on her hip like a baby. “I thought you said you never wanted anyone to see this room?”

“They needed costumes for the Onsen on Ice thing,” says Yuuri, then adds in Japanese, “ _Also, I may feel a little bit guilty for overdoing their waterfall training_.”

Mari barks out a laugh and rolls her eyes at him. “ _Baka._ ”

Yuuri watches Yurio flit to her side and try to coax Pyocha to come with him. The cat purrs and nuzzles Yurio’s hand but makes no move to transfer.

“Don’t give me that face, Yurio,” Mari teases Yurio, who looks about ready to start sulking, rejected by his own cat. “She’s just scared to fall, the big baby.”

Mari lifts her arm to prove her point and sure enough, Pyocha’s latched to her side like a giant burr, claws clinging for dear life. Yurio snorts in amusement, his hands closing around Pyocha to gently support her torso. She immediately detaches from Mari and hooks onto Yurio’s hoodie instead.

“Costumes?” Mari says, dusting off her shirt as she turns back to Yuuri. “Which ones did they get?”

“Yurio got the white shiny one with the feathers. From 2005, I think.” Yuuri says.

“Ah, the swan-lake looking one from your Junior Worlds?”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“Nice, I think that will go well with his Agape routine,” she says.

Makkachin trots in, and heads straight for Victor, sniffing inquisitively and moving in little hops to peer at the shelf Victor’s looking at.

“Makka, your tail!” Victor cautions, using the garment bag to shield a cluster of matryoshka dolls (Russia, 2009 Rostelecom Cup) from Makkachin’s excited wagging.

Makkachin tames the wild thumping to tiny swishes, his panting increasing in volume to compensate for his contained excitement.

“Good boy!” Victor laughs, fondly dropping a kiss on the poodle’s nose.

“Ugh, your kids are _so cute_!” Mari says, digging her elbow in his midsection.

“They’re _not_ my kids!” Yuuri argues, playfully shoving her on the shoulder.

“Fine, fine,” Mari says, arms raised in mock surrender. “What did Vicchan get?”

As if on cue, Victor and Makkachin bound toward her.

“I got—” Victor says, unzipping the garment bag with unnecessary flourish, “—coach’s free skate costume from the 2008 GPF!”

Mari peers into the bag.

“I remember this one!” she says, nodding in approval. “Good choice for Eros.”

They continue browsing and reminiscing on Yuuri’s skating career, when Mari gets a mischievous glint in her eye. She starts an overly-detailed story from Yuuri’s early skating career—the one about his first Junior Worlds, when Yuuri was so nervous he threw up in a potted plant. Victor and Yurio listen with attentive fascination, Victor dissolving into giggles and Yurio snorting with laughter.

Before she can finish the story, Yuuri interrupts with frantic, pleading Japanese and shoves them all out the room, locking the door, and announcing they are never allowed to go in the room. Mari laughs, unfazed and merciless, pulling Yurio and Victor toward the common room as she continues finishing the story anyway.

 

* * *

 

One morning the following week, without any warning whatsoever, the inn is filled to capacity when two disheveled men cram fourteen teenagers into Yu-topia’s tiny reception area. They’re all dressed in black tracksuits, and infuriatingly energetic for six in the morning; half of them bouncing off the walls with excitement while the other half try to stop the bouncing.

Chaperone One, a man with bleached hair, several piercings, and an angry scowl to match, introduces himself as Ukai and explains that their ride broke down on the way to a special team-building event. He asks to rent a large room where the kids could stay for the day while their bus is undergoing repair. Toshiya helps him check in, cheerily asking about their team and the man grumbles something about playing volleyball in Miyagi (“ _Wow, you sure came a long way.”_ ) and something else about if the onsen is deep enough to drown a few teenagers in (“ _It is, but the clean up would be such a nightmare!”_ ).

Yuuri gets tugged into the reception area at the request of his mother to help their unexpected, extremely loud guests settle in the banquet room. Chaperone Two, a bespectacled man whose name Yuuri can’t remember, apologizes profusely after two of the boys—a petite one with orange hair, and a stern-looking one with black hair—almost break a table because of an impromptu arm-wrestling-turned-actual-wrestling match.

Before Yuuri can acknowledge the apology, the man apologizes _again_ as another petite boy, with a blond streak in his spiky black hair, chases after Makkachin, who runs straight for Yuuri to cower behind his legs. Yuuri laughs good-naturedly, expressing his sympathy by telling him that he’s got his own monster-charges in his care.

Suddenly, someone shouts, “Tsukishima!”

Yuuri whips around and—ah, speak of the devil—spots one of his own monsters, Yuri Plisetsky, looking absolutely _murderous_ as a blonde kid with glasses towers over him with a sneer. The blonde kid—Tsukishima—had apparently bumped into Yurio and decided to make a snide comment in lieu of an apology.

And Yurio, with his charming disposition, predictably, does not take it well.

Thankfully, Chaperone One—Ukai-something—grabs Tsukishima by the collar and yanks him back in an effort to prevent chaos. But Tsukishima, proving himself to be a deranged war freak, continues to provoke Yurio despite already being pulled away.

Yuuri feels the blood drain from his face as he realizes: _no one’s holding Yurio back_. Height difference or no, Yuuri is 100% sure that Yurio is more than capable of doing serious damage to this snarky kid.

Yuuri dashes toward Yurio, managing to close a hand around his elbow just as Yurio was about to swing his foot back to prepare to kick Tsukishima in the face.

As though things weren’t ridiculous enough, the Universe throws Yuuri a curveball in the form of Victor-fucking-Nikiforov sauntering into the tension. He takes one look at Yurio and the deranged megane blonde, and makes everything worse with literally a flip of his hair. He walks right up to Tsukishima and flashes him a suspiciously charming smile, before he, under the pretense of leaving ( _“Time for practice, Yura.”_ ), whips Tsukishima painfully in the face with his ponytail.

Yuuri quickly jumps into action, apologizing to their guests as he shoves a protesting Victor and Yurio out the door. He orders them to head to the Ice Castle and get started on the dress rehearsal, saying he’ll follow as soon as he’s done helping out at the inn.

Around forty minutes later, after Yuuri helps Chaperone Two—the frazzled bespectacled man—shepherd the kids into their room, he arrives at Ice Castle and is greeted happily—too happily—by Takeshi.

“Oh no,” Yuuri says, steeling himself for more bad news. “What happened?”

“Why do you always assume something bad happened?” Takeshi says innocently.

“It’s your face,” he says flatly.

“What’s wrong with my face?!” Takeshi feigns offense before admitting, “Well okay something did happen.”

“ _I knew it_ ,” Yuuri moans. “What did they do now—”

“I’m not telling you because you have to see it for yourself. But I will say this: you’re gonna want to kill them—”

Yuuri sprints to the rink to inspect the damage, dragging a laughing Takeshi by the collar.

Yuko and the triplets have gone into maximum fangirl mode, and have created a tiny set up for a photoshoot in the middle of the rink for Victor and Yurio, who are dressed in their Onsen on Ice costumes. Yuuri raises a judging eyebrow at Yuko when she tries to defend herself (“ _It’s to help the girls update the Onsen on Ice posters. I’m not_ that _into it.”_ ). But she’s holding a reflector between her knees, has a basket of hair styling contraptions strapped to her hip, and is lovingly combing Yurio’s hair _and_ applying setting spray on Victor’s hair. It doesn’t help her case.

“I don’t get it,” says Yuuri as he watches Victor and Yurio pose.

Yurio, thankfully past the encounter from earlier, patiently humors Lutz and Yuko; allowing Yuko to direct him into poses while Lutz snaps a few million photos. Victor, being the attention whore that he is, puts on a show for Axel and Loop, skating around them in a variety of poses while they take all the pictures from all the angles.

“What’s the thing that will make me want to—”

And then he sees it.

Oh dear gods—it’s the costumes.

_They changed it._

Victor replaced the entire right side with sheer fabric, with only a few strips of opaque black running in wavy lines across his waist and one running up the shoulder with the crystal accents.

Yurio altered his costume as well, somehow managing to remove the opaque outer layer to expose the rest of the shiny sheer fabric that covers the entire torso and topped it off by bedazzling everything with rhinestones.

Victor breaks away from the photoshoot to skate toward Yuuri, who looks completely scandalized. Takeshi slings a heavy arm around his shoulders and whispers urgently ( _“Don’t break his confidence! Be supportive of your kids—supportive!”_ ). Leave it to Takeshi to give sound parenting advice at the weirdest moments.

“The sleeve…” Yuuri croaks, helplessly gesturing at the massacred remains of his costume, glitteringly sheer and sexified to the point of no return.

“I made a few adjustments to make it more ‘me,’” Victor chirps, fantastically poor at interpreting Yuuri’s horrified expression as his cue to continue talking. He swivels to show Yuuri all the new details he added to the costume. “I used the extra fabric to add a half skirt!”

“A half…” Yuuri trails off as Takeshi’s arm tightens around his shoulders in a reminder (“ _Supportive!”_ ).

“For my androgynous image,” Victor says, beaming with pride at his craftsmanship skills.

“Yes, of course,” Yuuri says without conviction.

“Do you like it?” Victor looks up at Yuuri expectantly.

“Yes, of course,” he repeats weakly, wondering when they even had the time to do this and what horrible, horrible thing had he done in any of his past lives to deserve this. Maybe he was a beauty queen serial killer. Maybe, he had massacred an entire bedazzled pageantry of Miss Universe candidates—that would explain why his costumes had to pay the price. Yes, maybe that was it.

His phone buzzes with a notification, breaking him out of his train of thought.

 **Phichit (7:03 am):** _The costumes look great!!!!! :D :D_

Yuuri shakes off Takeshi’s arm to furiously type: _WTF HOW DID YOU KNOW._

 **Phichit (7:04 am):** _;)_

Witchcraft, Yuuri concludes as his phone buzzes again.

 **Phichit (7:04 am):** _Bb Lutz sent me pics on insta :3_

* * *

 

Yuuri allows the nonsense to ensue for twenty more minutes before he breaks up their little session, instructing Victor to get ready to run through the Eros routine in costume ( _“Remember to mind your jumps.”_ ). He nudges Yuko and her beauty supplies off the rink, and Yurio follows closely, arms held out as he ushers the triplets after their mother. They all settle in the stands—Yuko and Takeshi trying to keep all her sprays, combs, and clips from spilling out of her hip basket; Yurio, sitting still while the triplets braid his hair in a half-ponytail ( _“Omg, you look like Legolas!”_ ).

After Victor and Yurio get their respective solo rink times—each of them doing three full run-throughs in their costumes—Yuuri makes them change and continue in their regular clothes.

Yuuri’s in the middle of taking a break from instructing Yurio when Victor, evidently giving up on serious practice for the rest of the day, sails into Yurio’s practice area about an hour later. Yurio’s too focused on his sequence to bother, and Yuuri can’t bring himself to care to make Victor stop (“ _It’s your funeral_.”) so he settles for watching Victor loop around Yurio with mixed choreography from both routines.

“He’s really good at that,” comments Yuko, sliding up beside him as she keeps an eye on the girls, who finished editing the posters and have joined them in the rink. They’re currently trailing after Victor as they try to copy his movements.

“Hm?” Yuuri says distractedly, worried that Victor’s sweeping limbs might accidentally send one of the girls flying across the ice.

“Victor,” clarifies Yuko, “he seems really good at the choreography thing.”

“Yeah, he is,” Yuuri says. “What he’s not good at is finding the core of his program. For someone with so many feelings, he’s really weird at working it into his routines. He won’t grow as a skater if he can’t figure it out.”

“Just give him time. He’ll get there,” she says encouragingly as they watch Victor improvise a pair skate routine with the all three of the girls.

“Yeah, I hope he does.”

 

* * *

 

As the Onsen on Ice competition draws nearer, things are slowly coming together: Yurio finds inspiration somewhere and succeeds in capturing the feeling of Agape in his grace, and Victor somehow, by what Yuuri assumes is witchcraft, bumps his quad Salchow success rate up to 90%.

However, Yurio’s tendency to overwork the first half of his routine into forced perfection still shows its impact in the second half. And Victor’s still lost between stage acting and authentic expression.

Yuuri tries a new method; he takes turns skating side-by-side with Victor and Yurio so they can study Yuuri’s movements as they both glide through the routine. He hopes Yurio learns how to pace himself, and Victor learns the nuances of expressing intimacy.

Victor stares intently and copies Yuuri’s movements exactly, hoping he can get away with not feeling the music by being in perfect sync with Yuuri, but for some reason he still keeps getting caught. Yuuri pauses in the middle of their fourth try to grimly frown at Victor.

“…”

“What.”

“…”

“ _What._ ”

“You’re still not feeling it.”

“ _How do you know?!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Practice continues without much progress for either of them and they all trudge back to the inn at the end of the day.

They’re both in their beds—Yurio on his phone for a routine scroll of his social media, Victor taking his stress out by furiously arranging and rearranging his pillows—and settling down for the night when Victor, apparently desperate to alleviate the stress, turns to Yurio for help.

“Yurio,” Victor starts, stretching his leg to prod Yurio’s shoulder with a perfect pointe.

“Ugh,” grunts Yurio in response, swatting Victor’s foot away.

“I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“What do you want?”

“Can you help me find my Eros?”

“Gross.” Yurio grimaces, and turns to face the other way.

“You know what I mean!”

“Ask Katsudon.”

“But he isn’t any help,” Victor whines.

Yurio sighs, and sits up.

“Fine. How do you want me to help you?”

“I’m not sure.” Victor admits. “You’ve seen the practices. You know there’s something I’m not getting.”

Yurio is silent for a while.

“Yurio?”

“Shh, I’m thinking.”

It’s Yurio’s idea to head to Minako for help but it’s Victor’s street smarts that make it happen. When they receive a text from Minako saying they can come over to the studio at 10 p.m., they realize: Yuuri’s never gonna let them out so late. So they end up having to sneak out of the inn—a mission impossible adventure where Victor discovers that Yurio is _astoundingly_ pathetic at sneaking out.

When it comes to skating, Yurio is a powerful, ever-evolving monster—all high skill and technical perfection. But when it comes to sneaking, Yurio’s just a shade away from being classified as a bumbling idiot. All the sharpened instincts Yurio has on the ice have absolutely zero effect on his stealth skills— he uses the flash on his phone to light the hallway, which Victor has to snatch and flick off before anyone notices, to which Yurio whisper-snarls, ( _“I can’t fucking see how are we supposed to get out”_ ); he has no reflex to duck down when one of the inn’s night staff passes by (Victor has to yank Yurio behind the reception counter); and he almost politely greets Toshiya ‘good evening’ when he walks by their hiding spot behind the plants by the entrance (Victor almost gets bitten when he clasps a hand over Yurio’s mouth).

They’re a safe distance away from the inn when Victor bursts out laughing.

“Yurio you—you suck so bad at this!” Victor says in between fits of laughter. “Where are your inner Russian spy skills?! Haven’t you ever snuck out before?”

“Shut. Up.” Yurio growls, quickening his pace in desperation to abandon his embarrassment, and Victor, at the side of the road.

They spend a solid three hours at Minako’s studio, yielding to Minako’s instruction as she aggressively refines Victor’s movements into something more believable ( _“The plan is to fake it ‘til you make it!”_ ), before they have to go back to the inn.

Sneaking back proves to be a little more interesting than sneaking out—Yurio, being determined to redeem himself, manages to slip unnoticed, to the stairs; but Victor gets stuck under the reception counter, frantically motioning for Yurio to come back and distract the staff lady who decided to, very slowly, meticulously rearrange all the pamphlets on the counter.

The next day has Yuuri throwing them amused looks every time they yawn or stumble a jump—Minako probably told him about their little dance session—but he continues on with their regular training session and doesn’t say anything.

 

* * *

 

Victor is no stranger to the elements of a competition.

The venues, programs, and competitors may change but it’s all essentially the same—the chaos of the press, the hype of the crowd, the tense atmosphere, the bloodlust for victory. On the day of the Onsen on Ice competition, Victor finds himself going through familiar motions: pulling on his costume, charming the press and the fans, stretching, warming up, and waiting in the wings for his turn to perform. Everything is routine, a steady flow of controlled variables, but the moment the spotlight shines on Yurio, something shifts.

As Yurio moves with the opening lilt of the ballad, Victor instantly sees that his skating has evolved. It’s completely different from anything he executed during practice. Yurio mesmerizes the audience as he transforms into Agape—a flowing, powerful serenity expressed through his skating. It’s a masterful performance in every aspect, satisfying everything Yuuri had demanded from him.

Suddenly, there it is, in Yurio’s near-flawless execution, an understanding of exactly how the grueling hours of discipline shape the end result into a renewed excellence, a show of how potent Yurio’s talent has become.

Victor feels it—the turn of the tide that changes his free-spiritedness into a feeling of being untethered, in free fall with the looming danger of a crash and no one there to catch him. The confidence he had in his skating falters and the ground falls from under him. And the possibility of failing becomes very, very real.

He could lose the competition.

He could lose Yuuri.

Victor is dangerously close to panicking, his gaze locked so tightly on his skates that he doesn’t notice when Yuuri approaches to tell him it’s almost his turn. Victor looks up, and there he is, there’s Yuuri in front of him—literally a goal within arm’s reach. He hesitantly reaches for Yuuri, a silent plea for comfort, and Yuuri consents to a hug.

“Just do what you do in practice. Just focus on me,” Yuuri says kindly as he secures Victor against his chest, offering calm in a form Victor understands—tactile communication.

“I know you can do this. Show me what you worked on during your secret lessons with Minako-sensei,” Yuuri jokes as Victor breaks out of his nerves with a laugh.

Yuuri holds Victor at arm’s length to look at him in the eye.

“Show me what your Eros is.”

Victor nods, slowly detaching from Yuri to face the rink as Yurio closes his performance with the final spin combination.

“Mind your jumps,” Yuuri reminds him gently, nudging him toward the mouth of the rink.

Victor manages to shake off the last of the nerves when he takes center ice and the guitar instrumental fills the rink. He circles his arms in a sensual trace of his body and throws a playful wink at Yuuri, who responds with an encouraging smile. The rest of the program is a bit of a blur. The bright lights and the wild cheers of the audience register as muted white noise, his focus only on Yuuri—a steady presence that keeps him anchored. All Victor remembers how he feels the music course through him as he embodies Eros in seductive arches, and powerful jumps—it’s the most he’s ever felt and the hardest he’s ever tried in a competition. He dances across the ice with everything he has to prove to Yuuri that he can do this—to prove that he wants this.

As Victor sails through the air with his perfect quad Salchow, it finally comes together; Victor feels the ice beneath him, steady and solid under his feet as he lands. And in that moment of unwavering clarity, Victor finds the focus of his program.

 

* * *

 

The Onsen on Ice competition concludes with Victor as its winner. He stands on the podium, all smiles and charisma, with Yuuri by his side instead of Yurio, who had left the venue before the winners were announced.

After letting Victor share a few words with the press about securing his win, and a few meet-and-greets with a crowd of screaming fangirls, Yuuri has the triplets keep everyone at a safe distance. He drags Victor away, so they can all go home for their celebratory dinner.

Back home, Yuuri heads to the family wing while Minako and the Nishigori’s prepare drinks and Victor helps the Katsuki’s make dinner—katsudon included—in the kitchen. He finds Yurio in his room, sitting in the middle of all his opened suitcases.

“You’re really leaving, Yurio?” Yuuri says, leaning against the doorframe as he watches Yurio sort through a pile of leopard print tops. “There’s still space for you here, you know.”

“A deal’s a deal,” Yurio says gruffly. “I’m going back to train under Yakov. I leave next week.”

Yuuri nods, “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“Victor—he’s a total airhead and an asshole but—he needs you. So.” Yurio pauses, before concluding, “Take care of him.”

“I will,” says Yuuri. He hears Mari yelling for him from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll see you downstairs, okay?”

Yurio nods. Yuuri turns to leave the room when Yurio calls out to him.

“Katsud—Yuuri?”

“Yeah?” Yuuri peeks into the room, where Yurio stands, looking at him solemnly.

“Spasiba.”

 

* * *

 

They spend Yurio’s last few days helping him ship some of his luggage back to Russia, and Yuuri suspends training for the rest of the week so they can hang out with everyone at the inn.

On Yurio’s last morning, the Katsuki’s, the Nishigori’s, and Minako band together to see Yurio and Pyocha off at the train station—Hiroko packs him katsudon for the trip ( _“Here you go, Yura-chan”_ ); Minako gives him a small bottle of sake which Yuuri wants to confiscate (“ _He’s underage!”_ ) but Minako shoves it in Yurio’s bag before Yuuri can snatch it away (“ _Let him have his fun!_ ”); and the triplets cling to his legs, bawling their goodbyes, and making him promise to text them every week. He spares everyone a rare smile and he calls out, “Dasvidaniya!” and he pushes past the entrance barrier.

As the rest of the group turns to leave, Yurio reappears, just behind the entrance gate.

“Oi, Victor!” He shouts, alarming a few salary men on their way into the station. “I’m going to beat you at the Grand Prix!”

Victor laughs and waves happily, “Bye, little duckling!”

Yurio makes an obscene hand gesture and leaves, blending into the morning rush crowd.

Victor stares after Yurio, long after he disappears from sight, looking a little lost and a little sad. Yuuri rests a hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Come on Victor, let’s go home.”

Victor startles and wordlessly latches onto the hem of Yuuri’s shirt. He leans into his shoulder, and Yuuri lets Victor stay by his side all the way home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you :) Sorry it took a while! A hilariously unfortunate combination of Life and bad timing made the chap release a little tricky but now it's here and wooooooo
> 
> Much thanks to my team for chapter 3:  
> Kiara - my LOVELY LOVELY editor who is forever kind and really fun to geek out with. HUZZAH WE DID IT HAHAHA YESSS  
> Jacquielou - my wonderful friend who (very patiently) listened while I read many many things aloud to her in an effort to improve my writing style :))))  
> Cassi - my fic buddy who never ever fails to give me awesome recs and be nerdy about it with me :D 
> 
> Thanks again for dropping by you lovely folks and hope y'all have a great day!
> 
> P.S. Don't be shy to throw your thoughts at me. I am game for comments if you are game :))


	4. Be Yourself…And Complete the Free Program

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor character death.
> 
>  
> 
> Are we at the stage of our relationship where I can make jokes like this and we share a laugh?  
> No?  
> Oh, okay :(

Yuuri is going over the mechanics of the quad flip with Victor when he sees it.

It’s barely visible under the flourish of Victor’s charisma, but it’s there—a desire to win. It’s desperate, and hungry, and straining; an unfamiliar, un-Victor presence that took Yurio’s place in the rink.

Yuuri recognizes the obsessive behavior with a twinge of dread. It was an old friend coming to visit; the powerful entity that forced him on the winning track and trapped him on his pedestal. The looming threat of failure, the inescapable need to win—it’s what perceived excellence felt like, Yuuri remembers.

The newfound drive came to life around the first week of Yurio’s departure when Victor, brimming with determination, demanded Yuuri teaches him all the quads. Yuuri, pleasantly surprised with Victor’s commitment, asked Victor to practice his other jumps as a review.

And practice Victor did. He made jump after jump after jump, until Yuuri had to intervene so Victor wouldn’t hurt himself.

Yuuri half-expected Victor’s determination to fizzle out as suddenly as it flared up, burning bright and quick like a firework, but it carried over to the next week as well.

“How was it?” Victor says with a small smile. He finally landed a quad flip attempt.

“It’s a little rough around the edges,” Yuuri comments. “We’ll have to strengthen your core before we try again.”

Victor’s smile fades into furrowed brows. He moves to try the jump again, but Yuuri puts a hand on his shoulder to still him.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” Yuuri says. “We can try it another time.”

“Okay,” Victor says, briefly placing his hand on Yuuri’s, then leaves to work on the cool down exercises—no dramatic complaints, no playful bargaining.

Something had changed in Victor after the Onsen on Ice. He did conditioning exercises without prompting, he added an extra set of skating drills to his warm up, and he stayed a half-hour longer after ballet to run through his extensions. He pushed through training harder than ever before, unsmiling and hyper-focused on reaching an impossible standard he seemed to have set for himself.

At first, Yuuri watched without question; maybe this was something Victor needed to go through. But almost three weeks into this new dynamic, Victor became withdrawn, and unlike himself. Instead of bothering Yuuri to learn Russian while they soak in the onsen, or helping Hiroko in the kitchen for dinner prep, he retreated into his room immediately after training.

Yuuri waits it out patiently, giving Victor space to figure himself out, but on Saturday Victor doesn’t go within  _three feet_  of Yuuri. It’s extremely worrying, to say the least.

“What did you do?” Mari accuses, plunking down two cups of tea next to Yuuri after dinner cleanup. Victor has already excused himself to hide in his room.

“I don’t know,” Yuuri says, frowning. “He’s been like this since Yurio left.”

“Well, I can’t take it anymore—you have to fix it!” she commands, poking Yuuri in the ribs. “It’s weird seeing Vicchan like this—it’s too sad! Fix. It.” She pokes him two more times for emphasis.

“I want to talk to him but I’m thinking of waiting it out a little longer. He’ll talk to me when he’s ready.”

“Maybe he’s not talking to you because he feels like he can’t?” Mari takes a sip before adding, “Maybe you have to talk to him first?”

Yuuri considers this, tracing worried circles on the rim of his cup.

“I could try,” he says eventually.

“You better.”

“I will,” Yuuri says.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri spends all of Sunday gently pressing, as subtly as he can, to get Victor talking.

But Victor, apparently picking up on Yuuri’s intentions, immediately puts up defenses in the form of outlandishly long-winded rambling on how they should plan out Yuuri’s dating life (“ _You’re not getting any younger, Yuuri! We have to find you someone! Okay, since your birthday is November 29, that means you’re a Sagittarius, which means your best bet would be to date an Aquarius!”_ ).

And when that doesn’t work, he pulls out the big guns.

In the name of strengthening their mentor-apprentice bond, he turns his flirting up to level ten. He all but _flees,_  while Yuuri’s successfully thwarted, sputtering protests at Victor’s teasing hands.

It leaves Yuuri unsuccessful, infuriated, and bewilderingly flustered.

  

* * *

 

They have their first fight that evening.

After dinner, Yuuri finds Victor in his room. He’s on the couch and watching reruns of the Worlds, while Makkachin dozes by his side. Yuuri sits next Victor, inwardly bracing himself as he pushes past his hesitance, and tries to reach out.

“Hi,” he says.

Victor looks up at Yuuri, and smiles. It’s the same smile he’s been using the past few days—forced, and lacking in his usual easy charm.

“Hi,” Victor says, turning back to watch the Worlds. He angles the laptop so Yuuri can see the screen.

Yuuri takes a breath. Here it goes.

“Are you okay?” he starts.

Victor shrugs noncommittally. “Sure,” he says.

“You haven’t been yourself lately,” Yuuri continues tentatively, before adding, “Is there something you want to talk about?”

“Nope!” Victor chirps, but his mouth sets in a grim line and his posture stiffens.

“Are you sure?” Yuuri says.

“Well,” Victor says, tucking his hair behind his ear and turning to Yuuri with a sly grin, “we  _could_  get to know each other more.”

“No, that’s not—”

Victor cuts him off by taking both of Yuuri’s hands in his, “We can continue strengthening our mentor-apprentice bond.”

“Victor…”

Victor pays no attention to Yuuri’s increasing discomfort, and drags him close, “You know, I was first drawn to you because of how you moved to the music—”

Yuuri snaps, “Victor,  _stop it_.”

Victor starts, frowning as he drops Yuuri’s hands, and moves away. The movement wakes Makkachin, whose gaze shifts between Yuuri and Victor. He whines softly.

“Why do you always have to do that—can’t you tell just me what’s going on?” Yuuri runs a frustrated hand across his nape.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Victor says stubbornly, leaving to snatch his shoes and Makkachin’s leash. “Come on, Makka. Let’s go for a walk.”

Makkachin looks at Yuuri with worried eyes, then jumps off the couch to stand by Victor at the door.

“I just want to help, Victor,” Yuuri says apologetically, walking over to Makkachin. He whimpers and buries his face in Yuuri’s open palm. Yuuri comforts him with gentle strokes. “How can I help you if you won’t talk to me?”

“What do you want to hear?” Victor says quietly, refusing to look at Yuuri. “That I’m having a hard time? That Yura’s discipline surpasses mine? That I know I don’t work hard enough? That I’m scared of screwing up?”

Yuuri doesn’t reply.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Victor shoves Yuuri out of his room with a brusque “ _goodnight,”_  and slides the door shut.

Whatever Yuuri was expecting from their talk, it wasn’t this. He only meant to talk, to help Victor work out what was bothering him. He wasn’t expecting to upset Victor in his effort to reach out.

Confrontation has never been his strong suit—it’s tense, it’s emotional, it’s messy. The ways by which a confrontation can go wrong are as finite as there are people, and Yuuri has spent a lifetime going out of his way to avoid them. The confrontation with Victor resulted the same unpleasantness—it’s just as tense, emotional, and messy. Only now Yuuri seems to be going out of his way to make it happen.

“Sleep,” says Toshiya when he sees Yuuri, seeking comfort in the kitchen and trying to excuse his cup of sake by reading the newspaper—sulk-drinking under the guise of a nightcap.

“So much keeps changing because of Victor, and I’m running out of ways to keep up.” Yuuri sighs. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Toshiya says. “This is the first time you’re both alone with each other and it’s taking some time to get used to. It’s an adjustment period.”

Yuuri miserably leafs through his newspaper instead of responding.

“Sleep,” Toshiya repeats. He takes the newspaper from Yuuri, folds it, and smacks him playfully on the head. “Everything will look better in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

It’s just past 4 a.m. when Yuuri quietly slips out for a walk on the beach. He trudges into the gloom of the early morning hour, trying to shake off the guilt—the unease that churned in his chest overnight and settled like wet cement.

He searches the horizon for the soft pink glow of sunrise, and sees a familiar figure down by the shore, silver hair faintly shining in the distant light from the streetlamps. It seems Victor’s out for a walk as well.

“Can’t sleep?”

Victor whips around at the sound of Yuuri’s voice. He turns back to the watch the waves with a sigh, absently scratching a sleeping Makkachin behind the ears.

“Yeah, you?” Victor replies.

“Same,” Yuuri says, sitting on Makkachin’s other side.

They watch the deep blues of the sky and the sea, letting the rhythm of the water fill the awkward silence that stretches between them. Makkachin twitches in his sleep, and then startles himself awake with a sneeze. Yuuri breaks out in a laugh, fondly tousling Makkachin’s fur.

The tension eases and Yuuri meets Victor’s eyes. He offers an apologetic smile. Victor returns the smile, his mouth curving, soft and shy around the corners.

Victor waits a long moment before he speaks again.

“Everyone wants something different from me,” he says. His hand twitches toward Yuuri’s, but he settles for putting an arm around Makkachin instead. “Yurio wants an older brother, Yakov wants the Rising Star, and everyone else wants the Darling of Russia.”

Victor sighs, glancing up at the sky, where the seagulls soar in gentle curves above the sea. Makkachin makes a sudden break for the shore to chase a stray seagull.

“And you—I don’t know what you want but it keeps getting harder and harder to figure out,” he continues, digging his hands into the sand. “You say I have great potential but you hold me back when I want to advance my jumps—you call me a child but expect me to act my age—I don’t know who you want me to be! I don’t know if I’m supposed to be your son or your student or your friend—”

Yuuri feels  _awful_. He’s been so absorbed in his own inner turmoil, he forgot to consider how Victor might be feeling. Victor, who is young, and lost, and just trying to figure out where he belongs; Victor, who left everything familiar—his life, his rink, his  _home_ —to come and learn from Yuuri; Victor, who has been trying to connect with Yuuri, only be rejected again and again.

“I only wanted to be better. To learn from you. To be here—with you,” Victor says softly, watching the sand sift through his fingers.

For the first time in his life, he decides to open up. He lets it all out on the beach. Victor talks about how everyone demanded the show, the dazzle, the charm. So he gave it to them. He said things people wanted to hear, and smiled even when he didn’t mean it, just to meet everyone’s expectations of him as the Rising Star, or the Darling of Russia. There was no room to be anything else, no room to be sad or stressed or worried. There was no room to be human—to be himself.

Yuuri knows Victor’s story. It’s a pain he’s been through, in his own experience of being put on a pedestal—the sacrifices, the expectations, the loneliness.

But in the years Yuuri had spent bearing the pain and pressure of his career, he always had family and friends nearby. He had suffered long and suffered alone, but they were always there, a quiet support that was ready to catch him if he fell.

For Victor, he didn’t seem to have anyone else aside from Yurio—just Yuuri.

And Yuuri hasn’t made it easy.

Yuuri stays silent, thinking. He never thought about what he wanted Victor to be or to do; only that he works hard, nothing more, and nothing less.

“I want you to be who you are,” Yuuri tells him eventually.

Victor turns to look at him.

“That’s it?” Victor says.

“I never asked for anything else—just that you train hard.” Yuuri smiles at him gently. “I’m  _your_  coach, Victor. So it should be me trying to be who you need  _me_  to be, not the other way around.”

Victor says quickly, “No,  _no_! All I need is for you to be you. I look up to you, I always have.” He sighs, looking away. “That’s why I’ve been avoiding you. I didn’t want you to see my shortcomings.”

He fixes Yuuri with a look, eyes flashing with determination.

“But I’ll make it up to you—by skating my best!” Victor promises.

He holds out his hand.

“You have a deal.” Yuuri reaches over and clasps Victor’s hand in his.

Victor smiles in relief.

There’s a lightness that spreads in Victor’s chest, a sense of freedom that stems from saying what he wants to say, as opposed to what he’s supposed to say. He reached out to Yuuri, with truths he had been holding to himself. And Yuuri meets Victor where he is, accepting the truths with no questions, no judgment.

After months of miscommunicating, they finally connect, like the sky meeting the sea, blending together at the horizon.

Victor leans into Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri lets him, wrapping a soothing arm around Victor’s back, as they watch the sunrise together.

 

* * *

 

After they came to an understanding by the beach, things have been easier. Yuuri became less guarded, and more relaxed around Victor. He allowed himself to get to know Victor all over again, to shake off the impression of Victor’s initial childishness. And Victor became comfortable to be himself, in all his unfiltered glory, around Yuuri.

This had its pros and cons.

The pros: Victor was surprisingly more mature—he was less prone to expressing his frustration through the petulance he had indulged in while Yurio was there; and he was more sincere in expressing his usual enthusiasm, but with more genuine interest, softer tones, and gentler smiles.

The cons: Victor was surprisingly brutally honest—he says things like “ _Maybe you’ll be able to demonstrate the jumps better if you didn’t eat so much katsudon”_ ; and his clinginess increased exponentially. He was less hesitant to hang onto or drape over Yuuri whenever he felt like it—which was always.

This gave Yuuri no choice but to develop a tolerance for it. The touching wasn’t much of a big deal, not anymore anyway. The habit had been building since Victor arrived and it’s about time Yuuri just rolled with it, especially since he clearly couldn’t get rid of it.

They’re walking back home from the rink when Victor latched onto Yuuri’s sleeve. They had spent the entire day helping the Nishigori’s with general cleaning at the Ice Castle and Victor was  _exhausted_. Yuuri, who was then engrossed in a conversation with Phichit, had let Victor hang onto his sweater all the way home.

And that was his mistake.

The fist on his sleeve, turned into linked elbows when they arrived home, which later on developed into Victor fully leaning into Yuuri after dinner cleanup. Yuuri would’ve shoved Victor off but he was apparently dead-tired, and had fallen asleep.

“Hang on,” Yuuri says, wriggling in their spot on Victor’s couch. He adjusts the angle of his phone. “I’m trying to find a better way to sit—he’s a lot heavier than he looks.”

“He?” Phichit’s face moves closer to inspect Yuuri’s side of the video call.

“Yeah, Victor fell asleep.” Yuuri tilts the phone to show a heavily slumbering Victor, half-strewn across Yuuri like a giant toddler; his arms looped around Yuuri’s torso, his face buried in Yuuri’s chest. “He’s super tired from today. I think it’s the first time he’s ever had to help clean a rink.”

Phichit, who looks like he stopped listening after “Victor fell asleep,” just  _stares_ at them through the screen _._

“Hello?” Yuuri says, after seven awkward seconds of looking at Phichit’s gawking. “Did the call hang? Hello?”

Phichit snaps to attention.

“OH?” Phichit’s smile is absolutely full of terrible, terrible glee. “ _Ohohoho!_ ”

Yuuri does not like where this is going.

“Phichit, don’t you dare—”

Phichit’s video feed jostles as he fumbles with his phone. He’s most definitely taking screenshots.  _Goddamnit_ , Phichit.

“I’m not saying  _anything_ ,” Phichit comments with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“It’s not like that.”

“ _Mmmm-hmmm,_ ” Phichit winks.

“ _It’s not like that!_ ”

 

* * *

 

The current skating season officially comes to a close with the end of June and they’re blessed with an opportunity for much-needed downtime before the next season starts.

They’ve just finished another day at the rink, wrapping up their session with the usual cool-down stretching. Yuuri’s in the middle of folding Victor into a forward stretch when Victor revisits his request for a short summer break (“ _Just three weeks, Yuuri. Please? Three weeks!”_ ).

He first asked over breakfast, and Yuuri, unsure about how the break would fit in their timeframe, refused to commit to an outright “yes,” but answered too vaguely for it to be an outright “no.” Victor held tight to that tiny ray of hope, and spends the day asking at forty-five-minute intervals.

“Victor,” Yuuri says warily, in response to Victor’s latest request. “Are your scores even good enough to qualify for the GPF? Don’t you have nationals? We don’t even have your free skate program yet!”

“But Yuuri,” Victor pleads, pushing up against Yuuri’s hands to face him.

Yuuri huffs at him. Victor’s been so spoiled lately—what with Yuuri letting him get away with exceeding clinginess—it’s becoming more and more difficult to argue with him when he decides he wants something. Yuuri’s pride refuses to let Victor get what he wants without a compromise—not this time, at least.

“Answers first,” Yuuri says firmly, resolute in keeping the upper hand.

He rearranges Victor’s limbs, in a merciless and businesslike fashion, until Victor’s bent into a sitting side stretch. Yuuri presses down on Victor’s torso, hard. That’ll teach him who’s boss.

Victor groans at the ache of the stretch and replies, “Ow—okay, okay.”

Yuuri’s not even the least bit ashamed at how smug he looks right now—little triumphs deserve to be celebrated.

“Scores?” Yuuri starts.

“Good— _great_  enough to qualify. I checked before I left.”

“Nationals?”

“Competed last December, after the GPF.”

“Free skate?”

Victor mumbles into the mat.

“Sorry?” Yuuri says.

“I  _said_  I already have a plan! We’ll talk about it after the break.” Victor moves into his other side, and Yuuri presses down on his torso again. “Yuuri, summer break _, please._ ”

Yuuri sighs, thinking it over. Well, they could  _maybe_  take two or three weeks off. It’ll still be a manageable workload if they started training around the fourth week of July. He releases Victor from the stretch.

“Fine, three weeks.” Yuuri allows.

Victor jumps up and slings his arms around Yuuri’s neck, “Arigatou!”

“But,” Yuuri adds. “We still do three hours at the rink in the morning. Monday to Friday, six a.m. to nine a.m., yes?”

“Yes!” Victor says, throwing his fists in the air.

Yuuri’s not quite sure who won that day, but he has a horrible suspicion it might’ve been Victor, in the end.

  

* * *

 

With their schedule simplifying from the deadly combination of calisthenics, ballet, and skating, to humane three-hour rink times, they have a lot more time to spend getting reacquainted with different versions of each other—the version that exists outside the confines of a training-oriented mindset.

They get to know each other in stages, surprising each other with old-new sides of their personalities—Yuuri discovers Victor’s knack for fast mental math one day while they’re stuck helping tally the inn’s expenses; Victor delights in Yuuri’s easy sense of humor, shared through extremely corny knock-knock jokes from Detroit, and his penchant for TV show references.

Turns out, Victor’s a lot of fun to be around. He brings about a vibrancy in the otherwise mundane with his genuine eagerness and interest for  _everything_. He asks Yuuri about his life in Detroit, while they tackle garden chores, and Yuuri tells him, in between pulling up weeds and spraying pesticide, about all the hilarious situations he and Phichit got into. Victor laughs, and shares his own list of shenanigans he and Chris used to get into during junior competitions.

They try a lot of little projects for fun, some of which involve watching YouTube braid tutorials and trying Buzzfeed Tasty recipes. They get obsessed playing a bunch of card games Yuuri learned in Detroit, sometimes getting so competitive that one of them ends up cheating (usually Victor) and the other one ends up throwing the cards like ninja stars (usually Yuuri) at the offender.

They spend afternoons taking Makkachin for walks around town, sometimes stopping by novelty shops to pick out something to send to Yurio. They spend evenings alternating between helping Hiroko and the kitchen staff, drinking with Mari and Minako, and babysitting the triplets.

They’re at the Nishigori’s, playing with the triplets while Yuko and Takeshi are out for one of their “FriDates.” They all decide on hide-and-seek, after spending a solid hour watching more braid tutorials, and Victor and the girls are each decked out in Daenarys plaits.

Lutz is currently “it” and is rapidly approaching the end of her count, while Victor scrambles for a decent hiding place, darting through several doorways in a complete state of panic.

He gets three steps into the family room when an arm shoots out from beside a tall bookcase, and yanks Victor into the space between the bookcase and the wall.

Victor almost screams.

“Shh, it’s me!” Yuuri whispers.

It’s a narrow space—a slight shift could send them tumbling out and blow their cover—so they have to press close together. Yuuri braces his arms tight around Victor to keep them safely anchored to the corner.

“She’s going to find us!” Victor whispers urgently.

“She will, if you keep talking. Shush!” Yuuri says, grinning.

They hear Lutz call out and run into the other room.

“Ha- _HA_!” comes the triumphant squeal, followed by a distinct shriek that could only mean she found Axel.

They hear footsteps enter the room. Lutz goes right past them—they’re well hidden in the shadow—and Victor almost bursts out laughing. He tries to muffle the sound, smashing his face into the dip under Yuuri’s collarbone, and dissolving into mute hysterics.

“Uncle Yuuri! Uncle Victor!” Lutz yells. “I  _know_  you’re here!”

She leaves the room once more and fails to see them  _again_. Yuuri loses it, clinging to Victor as they shake in silent laughter, as Lutz zips past.

  

* * *

 

Yuuri has Boundaries.

In the public eye, they’re virtually nonexistent. He’s appropriately social with his fans and the press, all pleasant smiles and polite small talk. He kindly signs everything his fans throw his way, patiently poses for photo ops, and answers as many questions as he can during interviews. Yuuri carries himself with a dignified air befitting of his title, and maintains the balance of his relationship with the public so expertly that there’s a friendly understanding of where the lines of absolute intolerance are.

In private, it’s front and center.

Yuuri has designated spaces. He draws lines and puts up walls, around his private life and personal relationships; his confidence is reserved to a limited few. His inner circles consist of Phichit, Minako, the Katsuki’s, and the Nishigori’s. His outer circles consist of Celestino, and a few people in the skating circuit. Everyone else is out-of-bounds.

Yuuri likes to keep himself and everyone else in their respective spheres. It’s how he makes sense of all the madness that follows in the wake of his career. It’s how he survives—by keeping everyone at a manageable arm’s length. And everyone has been kind enough to keep to their spaces, to know when to step away from the lines.

Victor is the opposite.

Since the beginning, Victor has ignored his designated space. He smudged the lines Yuuri drew between them, intent on setting up camp in the available area—right in the middle of the protected loneliness within the walls of Yuuri’s boundaries.

Victor had pressed into the space with curious hands, wandering over every inch of Yuuri that he was allowed to touch. His hands gently pat and hold and trace, learning the lines of Yuuri’s arms and shoulders, the curves of Yuuri’s back and waist, the jagged edges of Yuuri’s anxiety and pain.

Soon enough the lines that Yuuri had drawn blur into nothing, and he doesn’t know at which point things changed—when he started allowing Victor in—but there he is, belly-down in Yuuri’s bed, and draped over Yuuri’s knee while they watch a progress video from Yurio.

Somewhere along the way Yuuri’s apprehension subsided, giving way to acceptance.

Yuuri understands Victor’s tactility as more than just a habit—it’s the way Victor communicates best. The words, the flirting, the charm is just window dressing—a low-risk, high-reward front that lets him connect with everyone without any personal losses.

But whether Victor means it or not, he speaks the truth with his hands. When he’s sad, it’s a clutch at the hem of Yuuri’s shirt; when he’s happy, it’s an arm linked in Yuuri’s or an arm around Yuuri’s waist, while he chatters endlessly; when he’s sleepy or stressed, it’s a press of his head on Yuuri’s shoulders; and when he’s upset, he tucks himself into Yuuri’s side, refusing to budge until he feels better.

It’s a game of push and pull at this point. Their contrasting personalities meet in a balancing act of learning to make room for each other—of feeling where the boundaries are, and seeing how far they can push them before pulling back.

Yuuri learns how to talk to Victor—discovering which words to use to coax rather than confront. He figures out how to communicate with Victor with touch as well. He guides Victor through his routine with a hand on Victor’s shoulders, hips, and arms, when words don’t get the message across; he playfully pushes Victor to skid across the ice when he gets pouty and refuses to skate; he responds with a gentle press on the small of Victor’s back when Victor balls a fist in Yuuri’s shirt.

And Victor learns how to read Yuuri—to know when to reel himself in, and how to come back slowly. He gets it right most of the time, but when Yuuri has down days, it takes Victor a while figure out the right approach.

He spends one afternoon working it out through trial and error. He gets rejected on his offer to eat at a sushi bar, to soak in the onsen, to visit the rink. Then finally, as a last resort, Victor drags Yuuri to the beach to watch the sunset.

Yuuri decides the harbor is as far as they go, stubbornly refusing to walk any further. He’s just not in the mood today.

But Victor tugs and tugs and tugs, trying to move Yuuri from the spot where he had planted his feet. Victor continues to pull—his hand loses the grip on Yuuri’s arm, inches toward Yuuri’s elbow, down Yuuri’s forearm, and all the way to Yuuri’s wrist—until Yuuri gives in.

And that’s how Victor ends up strolling hand-in-hand with Yuuri across the stretch of beach, tracking footsteps where the waves meet the shore, water washing over their ankles with each swell of the tide.

 

* * *

  

Life in the Katsuki household was generally peaceful. Even when the inn was crawling with tourists during peak season, there was always an element of calm in the set routine of check-ins and checkouts, and the controlled chaos of mealtimes.

This year, however—with the winning combination of the viral video disaster, the surprise mentorship, the Onsen on Ice, and Victor—this year was an exception. Since the arrival of Yurio and Victor, it was safe to say that the reign of peace in the Katsuki household officially expired.

When Yuuri hears a crash from Victor’s room, followed by panicked footsteps heading in the direction of his room, he just  _knows_  it’s not going to be good news.

He opens the door and Victor barrels into his chest, frantically flailing. “Yuuri,  _oh my god_ —Yuuri—look—”

“Okay, calm down,” he says, laughing. His hands fly up to steady Victor by the shoulders.

“ _Phichit_ ,” Victor says urgently, as though it explained  _everything_.

Yuuri’s beginning to sense a pattern, here.

Victor holds his phone up for Yuuri to see. Victor’s twitter app glows on the screen and is opened to Phichit’s latest tweet, posted five minutes ago, which boasts an ominous,  _Surprise, mothafuckahs! ;D ;D @yuurikatsuki @v-nikiforov_.

“What does he mean?” Victor whispers, eyes wide under the mess of silver hair that had fallen from his bun in his panicked flailing.

“I’m…not entirely sure,” Yuuri admits, taking Victor’s wrist to closely inspect Phichit’s twitter feed.

There was nothing else that gave a clue to what Phichit could be talking about, his past few tweets being completely unrelated: fan theories on this show he was currently obsessed with, his craving for something savory, some complaint about the weather.

“Let me see,” Victor says, pushing his bangs back and adjusting his wrist at an angle they can both see.

They scroll further along Phichit’s feed until they reach a post from two days ago saying,  _Off-season is sooooo boring._

Followed by a cryptic,  _OMG. BEST IDEA EVER ;D_

They stand stock-still, trying to connect the dots when Victor’s phone dings with another twitter notification. The tweet reads:  _Made a new friend! ;D @yuurikatsuki @v-nikiforov_. Attached is an image. It’s a selfie—

— _with Makkachin._

They bolt downstairs.

Yuuri reaches the bottom of the stairs first. He sees Phichit— _Phichit!_ —standing in the middle of the reception area with a bright orange suitcase, talking animatedly with Mari. Yuuri freezes in shock, causing a rushing Victor to slam into him. The force propels them both forward into a heap on the floor. Makkachin bounds toward them and barks happily.

“Phichit!” Yuuri exclaims, scrambling to his feet.

Victor sticks a hand in the air. Yuuri tries to hoist him up, but Makkachin pounces on Victor in his excitement over having  _so many_  friends today. Yuuri gives up on helping Victor, stepping over them ( _“No, Yuuri, come back!”_ ) to crush Phichit into a hug.

“Why—what are you doing here?” Yuuri says. “Not that I’m complaining but— _why_?!”

“My radar said I needed a front row seat to all this chaos,” Phichit says seriously, holding Yuuri by the shoulders and nodding gravely.

“What chaos?” Yuuri pales.

“Nah, I’m kidding!” Phichit breaks character with a laugh. “Relax! I had a little free time before the season started and I missed you!”

Yuri heaves a sigh of relief. “I had about five  _million_  heart attacks—you’re pure evil, Phichit,” he declares, dragging them all to the common area where he collapses with another sigh.

“I thought something insane happened. This year seems to be full of…” Yuuri trails off when his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket to see—

 **Tetsuro Kozume** **(JSF) is calling…**

“…Surprises?” Phichit offers.

Well, shit. Phichit’s radar is  _scary accurate_.

Cue the five million heart attacks.

 

* * *

 

“So let me get this straight,” Phichit says, not even bothering to hide how completely delighted he is. “After proving not only do you  _suck_  handling children, but you also can’t teach for shit, the Universe decides to throw you  _more_  children to handle  _and_  teach shit to?”

His following guffaw hurts a lot more than it should.

By some twist of fate, the JSF, upon confirming Yuuri’s coaching gig with the Russians, decided to join the fray. They send their best representative, Tetsuro Kozume, to request (demand) that Yuuri teaches a weeklong workshop for Japan’s most promising skaters.

“Katsuki-kun,” Kozume drawled. “It’s your responsibility to leave a legacy behind when you retire. You have to pass on your knowledge to the next generation of homegrown legends! Plus, it’s good life experience.”

He follows up with a very generous incentive (in addition to threatening to claim Yuuri’s retirement as invalid should he process the paperwork), but Yuuri doesn’t care about the money, or the “experience.” He didn’t ask for the first round of apprentices, and he  _definitely_  did not ask for this one.

After coercing Yuuri to promise he’ll think it over, Kozume hangs up despite the vehement “ _no_ ” that’s waiting on Yuuri’s tongue.

“I  _do not_  want to do this.” Yuuri says firmly.

“Why not?” Phichit says.

Yuuri throws him  _a look_.

“Okay, dumb question.” Phichit raises his hands in apology. “New question: when do they want you to do it?”

“Next week.”

“Well, that sounds like you have time to prepare a training schedule.” Phichit says sensibly.

“That’s not the point!” Yuuri whines.

Phichit ignores Yuuri’s protests and asks, “How many kids do they want you to teach?”

“Three.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Ugh,” Yuuri says, slumping over the table. Makkachin sticks his snout under Yuuri’s arm and nudges him upright. He frowns at Makkachin, but scratches him behind the ears anyway. Yuuri laments, “I am an old and very tired man, just trying to quietly take a break from  _Life_. Why does no one get that? Why do people keep giving me things to do?”

Victor, who has been quiet this whole time, finally speaks up.

“Yuuri, if you can’t inspire someone who’s in your home team, how can you inspire me? I’m disappointed in you.” Victor says sourly before he stalks out of the room.

Phichit snickers, “Did he just sass you—oh my god.”

“Sometimes I wish we never had that talk,” says Yuuri. “Now he’s totally unfiltered.”

“He is right you know,” Phichit says wisely.

Yuuri groans, resigning to his fate. “I guess summer break is over.”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri, Victor, and Phichit are at the Ice Castle. They’re going over the workshop module at the reception counter, when the three JSF skaters arrive.

They’re followed closely by an army of reporters and are absolutely terrified, sprinting for their lives toward the Ice Castle. They collapse on the floor, after barely managing to squeeze past the doors and into the safety of the lobby. The triplets immediately jump into action with the efficiency of a swat team, and lock the double doors, leaving the reporters outside with their faces and cameras smushed against the glass.

“ _What the fuck,_ ” Phichit gasps.

“Introductions later!” Yuuri tells the newcomers. He pulls up one of the kids and motions for Yuko. “Go with Yuko—I’m gonna have to deal with this first!”

They nod, eyes wide with fear. Even with their exposure in the national skating scene—the crazy screaming fans and the regular mayhem of the local press—this is daunting. The media attention doesn’t usually get this  _intense_.

“I thought Japanese reporters were nice?!” Phichit says, horrified at the magnitude of insanity swarming a mere twenty feet away, with only a few panels of glass to protect them.

“They were, but now they’re crazy—and it’s Yuuri’s fault!” Victor says, as he helps up a kid with a red streak in his blonde hair, and hands him off to Yuko. He eyes the reporters, who are frantically waving at them and banging on the doors. Well, this is mildly terrifying. “He’s been dodging them for  _months_! He BROKE THEM.”

Yuuri stops in the middle of giving Yuko instructions to usher the kids to the rink, to protest, “I did  _nothing_  wrong!”

Yuko leads the frightened JSF skaters into the rink while Yuuri turns to Victor and Phichit.

“Are we ready for that?” He nods toward the press.

They face the doors, with their backs pressed hard against the edge of the counter, surveying the situation and trying to think of a plan of action. The reporters were completely deranged today, trying to scream their interview questions through the doors and hungrily clawing at the glass. It was like a zombie apocalypse.

“Why do I feel like we gotta go to Busan?!” Phichit yells.

“ _What do you mean?_ ” Yuuri says.

“Train to Busan—it’s a zombie movie!” Victor says.

“Have I seen this movie?!” Yuuri says, raising his voice over the growing din.

“No, but we can watch it later!” Phichit shouts in reply.

“Do you have—”

The thundering attention of press increases from crazy to  _manic_ , and the glass doesn’t look like it can hold against the pressure any longer. Holy fuck, they  _do_   _not_  have time for this.

“FOCUS, YUURI, FOCUS.” Victor screeches, yanking Yuuri in front of him to use as a human shield.

“RIGHT—SORRY!”

“SO WHAT’S THE PLAN, STAN?” says Phichit.

“I’M THINKING—SKATE AMERICA APPROACH?”

“THAT COULD WORK!”

The Skate America Approach has five steps.

Step One: find a high place to stand on.

Yuuri runs, pulling Victor and Phichit away from the reception counter and to the benches. They make their way to a middle bench near the entrance to the rink, and stand on it.

Step Two: ready the back up.

Yuuri signals the remaining Nishigori’s to prepare themselves. Takeshi arms himself with long-stemmed brooms in each hand, and the triplets strap on their skating helmets and kneepads for safety.

Step Three: know your escape route.

Phichit says, “ESCAPE ROUTE IS WHERE?”

“ESCAPE ROUTE IS THERE!” Victor replies, nodding to the narrow hallway behind them. “WE JUMP DOWN ON THE LEFT, NEAR THE VENDING MACHINES AND MAKE A RUN FOR IT.”

“NICE WORK, VICTOR!” Yuuri says, pulling his phone from his pocket.

Step Four: mind the fifteen-minute time limit.

It’s general knowledge that everything goes south after the fifteen-minute mark—that’s when the questions take a shady turn, reporters get more impatient, and the fans get violently ecstatic. Yuuri sets the timer at fifteen minutes.

Step Five: turn on the charm.

Yuuri braces himself and nods at the triplets—a go signal to unleash the storm of reporters. They open the doors and a huge wave of people rush in, all overwhelmingly eager and invasive and hell-bent on getting something— _anything_ —from Yuuri Katsuki, who seems to be the ever-evasive source of all skating scandals this year.

In an instant, they’re assaulted on all sides by a million camera flashes and questions. Phichit and Victor are momentarily stunned. Yuuri, however, is perfectly at home with the strobing chaos, answering the questions with the rapid-fire ease of a trained professional.

“ _Katsuki-san, what are your plans this season?_ ” a reporter says, in Japanese.

“ _As you have probably heard, I am still on hiatus this season, so my main focus will be coaching Victor Nikiforov._ ” Yuuri replies smoothly.

“Holy shit, I don’t know any Japanese,” Phichit yanks Victor to hide behind Yuuri and whispers fiercely into Victor’s ear. “What are they talking about?”

“I don’t know enough to know what they’re saying!” Victor replies in an equally fierce whisper. “But I heard my name, do you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Lol, I have no idea.”

“ _Katsuki-san, what are your plans after this season?_ ”

“ _That’s a question for another time_ ,” he says diplomatically, trying to ignore the ridiculousness going on behind his back. “ _Next please_.”

“ _Katsuki-san, could you tell us about how you’ll be handling this workshop?_ ”

Yuuri replies, “ _I can’t go into detail, but we will be working on improving their current programs, as well as training for more difficult jumps._ ”

“ _What is the involvement of Phichit Chulanont and Victor Nikiforov in this workshop? Will they be attending as well?”_

“Oh my god I heard  _my_  name!” Phichit says. He’s still got Victor by the collar and they’re both still using Yuuri as a human shield.

“I think they’re talking about the workshop!” Victor whispers.

“ _They’ll be assisting with the workshop_ ,” says Yuuri. “ _Do you have other questions?_ ”

The questioning continues for a few more minutes before the media attention turns to Phichit and Victor. They’re frozen in fear as the reporters throw question after question at them in a mix of Japanese and heavily accented English.

Victor claws a fist in Yuuri’s jacket so tightly his knuckles turn white.

Yuuri waits a minute—it’s rare to see them so  _speechless_ —before he saves them, translating until the timer goes off.

  

* * *

 

Victor watches Yuuri, from his seat on the bleachers, as Yuuri presents his opening spiel: introductions, a review of the skaters’ current skillset and program goals, and a rundown of their workshop module.

One of the skaters, the one with the red streak in his blonde hair, introduces himself as Kenjirou Minami, age 19. When he introduces himself, it’s with a furious blush across his cheeks and an incredibly stiff bow. The other two skaters introduce themselves, with normal levels of enthusiasm, as Kazunari Matsumoto, age 17, and Jun Satoshi, age 18.

Minami is exceedingly ecstatic in Yuuri’s presence, starry-eyed and hanging onto Yuuri’s every word. He answers a little too loudly, stands a little too closely, and seems to vibrate out of his skin whenever Yuuri gives him positive feedback.

Minami, Victor decides, is  _adorable_.

Satoshi and Matsumoto, are starry-eyed as well, but for reasons different from Minami’s. Apparently, they’ve been loyal fans of Phichit Chulanont, and are completely thrilled to be his general vicinity. After a few interactions, Phichit figures this out and is equally thrilled. He adopts them immediately, and adds them on Facebook as his sons.

Victor spends their whole first day just watching Yuuri. He watches as Yuuri instructs his students through the skating drills, with perfect form and the patience of a saint; watches as Yuuri reviews their programs with a critical eye and kind words; watches as Yuuri demonstrates jumps, with effortless and powerful grace.

Victor’s never noticed it before because of all the factors that were involved thus far, but Yuuri on ice was a completely different person. He’s every bit the seasoned champion Victor has admired over the years. Yuuri carries himself with a quiet, hard-earned confidence, and moves with a weightless ease built through decades of comprehensive training, ingraining movements in his muscles until his jumps became as quick and efficient as reflexes.

In the months that Victor has gotten to learn Yuuri as human—his playfulness, his gentle patience, his sharp edges—he had almost forgotten about Yuuri as Legend; the shiny, world record-breaking champion worshipped by many.

It’s strange to think that this is his life now. To realize that he exists, side-by-side, with his life-long idol—to be within arm’s reach of Yuuri Katsuki, Skating Legend.

Victor’s current life is so profoundly unbelievable, he doesn’t know what to make of it. The lines were clearer back then, back when Yuuri meticulously maintained his spaces—to which Victor was uninvited. But things were different now. Now, they’re just _here_ , with each other in limbo, floating somewhere between friends and—dare he think it— _maybe_ something else. To be entirely honest, Victor’s not sure where they stand.

But he doesn’t need them to be anywhere else.

Wherever here is, here is fine.

 

* * *

 

Their first few days happen without a hitch. Yuuri does the same thing he did with Yurio and Victor: he makes the skaters perform their routines and gives his comments on what they need to work on. The whole process is pretty straightforward and keeps everyone busy with their respective routines.

On the fourth day, they encounter a small problem.

The new kids are generally well behaved. They’re polite and obedient and are receptive to critique. Especially compared to Yuuri’s first batch of apprentices, these kids are _exceptionally_ well behaved.

But on the morning of their fourth day, some idiot feeds them coffee and they go ballistic. They bounce around in excitement, zip through the skating drills with astonishing speeds, start a Snapchat war with the triplets, and everything goes to hell. Yuuri, Phichit, and Victor feel like three overworked, single parents, banding together in a single-parent alliance to tackle their giant hyperactive toddlers with a tag-team system.

They all head back to the inn, exhausted. Victor’s hanging on to Yuuri’s sleeve, as per usual, as they make their way back.

“Today was _awful_. Who fed them coffee? Why, why would you feed children coffee?” Phichit whines. He checks behind them periodically for Minami, Satoshi, and Matsumoto; they’re suffering from a caffeine crash and are trailing behind slowly.

Victor replies, “I’m just glad it’s over. I need food. And sleep.” He reaches around Yuuri for the Chapstick in Yuuri’s pocket.

When Victor moves to return the Chapstick, Yuuri pulls him close and wraps an arm around his waist. Somewhere behind them, there’s a weird squealing sound. Maybe one of the kids spontaneously combusted from the caffeine crash, but Yuuri’s too tired to suss it out and lets it be.

He leans heavily on Victor. “Sleep would be nice. A week’s worth of sleep.” Yuuri says, yawning.

Victor grumbles his complaints at being used as a human crutch, but he half-heaves, half-drags Yuuri home anyway.

 

* * *

 

They spend the next day running over routines for polishing. It’s Minami’s turn, and he and Yuuri both seem unsatisfied with a particular step sequence.

“You need to flow more,” Yuuri comments.

“Flow?” Minami says.

Phichit and Victor, who are in the middle of trying to choreograph a Single Ladies routine, stop to listen to Yuuri and Minami’s discussion.

“Yes. The rhythm of your program may be staccato, but your steps don’t need to be,” Yuuri says. “Think more babbling brook, than ocean wave.”

Phichit says, “What the who now did you just say?”

“See?” Victor exclaims, pointing frantically at Yuuri. “See what I have to deal with?”

“Oh, ok,” Minami says after a while. “Like this?”

He performs the step sequence with the recommended adjustments, no problem.

“Yes, exactly! Nice work, Minami,” Yuuri says.

Phichit and Victor gawk at Yuuri and Minami.

Phichit blurts, “So is that a Japanese thing, or…?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you have this… _endearing_  habit when you teach. You explain things weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like,” Phichit stands up very straight, and hikes his shoulders up to his ears. He puts a hand over his heart and extends the other arm in front of him, with all the seriousness of someone going to deliver a soliloquy from Macbeth. He takes a deep breath. “Gather ‘round, my dear pupils, for I shall teach you the way of the ice! First, you must move, like the stars, and sway with the winds of the earth! Gracefully now, gracefully!”

He spins stiffly in place, and nearly clotheslines Yuuri. Minami, Matsumoto, and Satoshi, burst out laughing.

“First of all, I  _do not_  sound like that!” says Yuuri, with an overdramatic gasp that has Phichit grinning.

“You kinda do,” Phichit says. “Dearest pupil, thoust must mindeth your jumpeths!”

“Holy crap—yes!” Victor howls with laughter, pointing at Phichit. “That’s—that’s—Yuuri—” He clutches his sides and gasps for air.

Phichit gestures at Victor as though to say,  _I rest my case_.

“And second of all,” Yuuri continues, barely managing to keep a straight face. “Fuck you.”

  

* * *

 

Yuuri is Tipsy™.

And Phichit. Phichit is also Tipsy™.

Yuuri and Phichit are  _Tipsy_ ™.

The weeklong workshop ended a lot better than anyone had expected so naturally, they  _had_  to celebrate with dinner and drinks. It  _may_  have involved a lot of alcohol, but Yuuri can’t know for sure. All he knows is that Minako and the Nishigori’s were in charge of the drinks and well, it’s safe to say that seventy percent of it wasn’t virgin drinks.

The whole party served a three-part purpose; it was a celebration for the end of the workshop, a farewell for Phichit, and a congratulations party for Victor and Minami, who had just received news on their GPF assignments.

While it wasn’t banquet-level fun, it was fun in its own right—Toshiya unleashed his drunken self after an impressive twelve beers, and started a conga line with Makkachin, the triplets, and Hiroko; Minako and Yuuri got into a flexibility contest, judged by Yuko, Victor, and a blushing Minami; Takeshi, Mari, Matsumoto, and Satoshi have taken over one table, and are trying to out-rap each other in English and failing spectacularly.

The party winds down at a respectable 10.30 p.m., and after exchanging long goodbyes and goodnights, everyone turns in for the evening. Everyone except Phichit and Yuuri, who decide to go blind into the night with only one half-baked mission: Adventure.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Phichit says, dragging out the ‘o’ longer than necessary.

He clutches Yuuri’s arm as they climb the last few steps into the park. He finds two benches near the view deck and dumps Yuuri in one of them, before he clambers on the other one.

“So…?” Yuuri says, lying face up on the bench.

He dots the sky with his finger, absently tracing the stars, while Phichit fumbles with his phone.

Phichit gives him a sidelong glance. “You seem…different.”

“Different?” Yuuri says, curious. “Different how? Different tired? Different ugly?”

“Different happy,” Phichit says simply.

“I swear I thought you were going to go for ‘ugly’ or ‘stressed,’” Yuuri says nervously. “I tell you, all the kids the Universe keeps throwing at me are ridiculous.”

He’s still feeling the happy fuzz of sake from earlier, but experiences a slight dip toward sobriety when his gut tells him this conversation is Going Places. He is not drunk enough for this to Go Places.

“That  _is_  true.” Phichit says, laughing. “But seriously though, you seem happier. Are you? Happier?”

“Life’s been…weird lately. Especially with Victor around,” Yuuri says warily. “It’s stressful and I don’t get a lot of sleep and I feel like I’m going to get my first gray hair soon, but—it’s been good weird. I guess. Victor’s been…nicer than expected.”

There. He’s done it. Yuuri has answered the question and ended this conversation.

“I see how he is with you,” Phichit comments.

Oh no.

Yuuri tries to wave it off with, “Ah, well, Victor’s just really  _super_  clingy—”

But Phichit cuts in, “More importantly, I see how you are with him.”

And there it is. This conversation is officially Going Places.

“Trust me,” Yuuri says, deflecting. He knows Phichit well enough to know what he’s trying to lead up to, and Yuuri is going to make it stop. Or die trying. “I did not go down without a fight. I have tried peeling him off—”

“—Yuuri—” Phichit says.

“—but he just keeps coming back—” Yuuri’s voice rises in pitch as he tries to talk over Phichit.

“—Yuuri, come on—”

“—like an evil sticker,” Yuuri finishes lamely.

“ _Real mature_ ,” Phichit rolls his eyes.

“He’s just really tactile,” Yuuri insists.

“Uh-huh.” Phichit says. “Yes, and it just so happens that he’s only really tactile with  _you_.”

“Phichit—”

“I swear, if you’re going to bring up the sticker thing again, I’m going to post  _all_  the pics I have of  _all_ the banquets.”

Yuuri’s mouth snaps shut.

“ _All of it_ ,” Phichit threatens, wielding his phone in the air like a sword.

“You’re mean.”

“Thank you, but I think you mean, Evil Genius.” Phichit says.

“Fine, fine.” Yuuri sighs. “Say the thing you wanna say. But I warn you, it’s really not whatever you think it is.”

“You might not see what’s happening, but I do.”

“And what is that?”

“You’re important to him. And not in a he’s-my-coach way, more like more-than-friends way.”

“Are you sure?” Yuuri says. It’s been years of Phichit trying to convince Yuuri out of his vow of solitude and this doesn’t seem any different from Phichit’s previous tries.

“Just because  _you’re_  completely dense—”

“—hey!” Yuuri interjects.

“—and gave up on the whole love thing, doesn’t mean  _he’s_  doing the same thing. Also, when has my radar ever been wrong?”

“Phichit, you’re killing my buzz,” Yuuri says, in lieu of a proper reply.

“There’s something on Victor’s side, something important and you-related feels, and I’m pretty sure there’s something on your side too.”

“Okay, I understand the Victor thing, but me—”

“—Yuuri, you  _let_ him hang onto you whenever he wants—”

“—but—”

“—you  _shared_  a cup with him!”

“Okay, my buzz is dead now—”

“— _you pull him in for hugs!_ ” Phichit says, jumping up and pointing at Yuuri accusingly. “You pull him in. For. Hugs.”

Yuuri sighs, “You’re really not going to let this go, huh?”

“This is the first time in  _years_  I’ve seen you like this with another human being. And I’m not going to let you ruin it because you’re too dumb to realize you have a possibility of something.”

“Okay, even if you were right about there being a ‘something’ on both sides, what now?”

“Don’t do the thing you like to do. Don’t complicate things with all the questions. There’s only one you need to answer: how do you feel about him?”

Yuuri’s quiet for a long moment. He leans up against the railing, staring into the city’s constellations, mapped out in street lamps and lights from house windows.

Aside from Phichit, who was more brother than best friend, Yuuri’s never had the luxury of having a best friend. He’s never experienced someone just being  _there_  all the time.

And Victor’s  _there,_ all the time—from when Yuuri wakes up in the morning, to just before he goes to sleep, and in the moments in between: in cramped breakfasts amidst the morning kitchen bustle; in afternoon errands or walks by the beach; and in quiet talks on the hallway floor when they run into each other, on random snack runs in the middle of the night. Sure, Phichit was a constant presence in Detroit, but he had different classes, and lived in a dorm on the other side of campus. But with Victor being just down the hall from Yuuri, the dynamics were different. Everything was much closer, more intimate somehow.

It’s been ages since Yuuri let a stranger get so close. And, he realizes in hindsight, it’s not as scary as he remembers.

“I don’t know what to call it,” Yuuri tells Phichit eventually. “But he’s the first person I’ve wanted to hold onto.”

“And there’s your answer.”

“That was vague. Vague and unhelpful.”

“You know it wasn’t. But you’ll figure the rest out,” Phichit says. “But I will say this: I know you. And I know if you  _really_  didn’t like whatever-the-hell Victor was doing, you would’ve given him a hard ‘no’ a long time ago.”

Phichit concludes, giving Yuuri a meaningful look that bore the weight of all the symbolic undertones Yuuri refuses to see.

Yuuri sighs, surrendering. Goddamnit, Phichit.

“Okay, you win.”

“Yes!”

“I will think about it.”

“Double YES!”

“Now, can we  _please_ get my buzz back?”

“ALL THE YES!”

Yuuri had only intended to drink enough to get his buzz back, but Phichit, being Phichit, cons him into a straight-up bender. Compared to the bigger cities they’ve been drunk in, not much can be done in the sleepy town of Hasetsu, but they manage to make things interesting. Some of their activities include: a karaoke showdown with a bunch of salary men; a few, very questionable rounds of shots with a few, very questionable people; and creating a detailed and dramatic Instagram Story musical about all the items in a 7-11 cereal aisle.

Getting home was easier than they anticipated, but getting to their rooms is the real challenge. There’s something extraordinarily distressing about navigating the labyrinth that is the halls of Yu-Topia, even with the night staff there to help them. 

Yuuri can’t seem to fill in the gaps between his last shot at the bar, and slamming his face into his pillow. The entire night is most probably fully documented on Phichit’s phone but Yuuri knows better than to ask. He just remembers a lot of laughing, and wild elbows, and Phichit scream-whispering how they have to be  _careful_  not to break the air— _the_   _air_.

Yuuri only has enough presence of mind to shove toothpaste in his mouth and take a quick shower, before he passes out on his bed.

He goes to sleep dreaming of the ice, of pink and blue figures skating to a familiar song.

  

* * *

 

Yuuri barely registers the soft knock. A blinding beam of light filters into the room when the door swings open.

“Yuuri?” comes the soft voice of Victor.

“No—don’t,” Yuuri croaks weakly.

“You okay?”

Yuuri’s reply gets muffled when he buries his face in his pillow. “Yes. No. Maybe.”

“Are you…hungover?” Victor says, kneeling to pat Yuuri on the head.

“Aren’t you?” Yuuri says, blearily swatting Victor’s hand away. His head feels gross. His everything feels gross.

“Nope!”

“ _How are you not hungover_? You matched me drink for drink last night!”

“Well, a) I’m Russian, and b) I didn’t have an after-after-party bender with Phichit.”

“Good point.” Yuuri says. He turns over to face Victor. “Next time we go drinking, you have to make me stop after five drinks. Five drinks—that’s it. No more.”

Victor chuckles, “Okay, sure, I’ll be your boozeblocker.”

Yuuri wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Come up with a better name because you are not embarrassing us by yelling ‘boozeblocked!’ every time you take a drink away from me.”

“I actually wasn’t thinking about that but thank you!” Victor grins at him.

“Ugh, turn it off,” Yuuri says, putting a hand over Victor’s face. The cold tip of Victor’s nose presses against his palm. “It’s too early for you to beam at me with your youth.”

“It’s noon,” Victor informs him, breath tickling his palm.

Victor jerks his head to the side, effectively dislodging Yuuri’s hand from his face. Yuuri’s hand falls, and comes to rest on Victor’s shoulder instead.

“Hm,” Yuuri says thoughtfully upon finding the tail end of Victor’s braid. He squints to inspect it. “Is this the fishtail braid Loop taught us the other week?”

“Yep, tried it this morning,” Victor replies with a soft smile. “Stop frowning! You’ll get wrinkles,” He tells Yuuri, pressing out the crease between Yuuri’s eyebrows with his finger.

“I’m not frowning, I’m squinting. Leave my old man wrinkles alone,” Yuuri says with a half-hearted attempt to feign offense. He traces the weave with careful fingers. “It’s nice.”

Victor sinks into the quiet warmth of the moment, enjoying Yuuri absently following the lines of the braid with his finger.

“Oh god.” Yuuri bolts upright, dropping Victor’s braid to throw his glasses on. “What time is it—where are the kids? I was supposed to bring them to the station—Did they get to the station? Are they still here? Where’s Phichit? Did he leave already?”

“Okay, relax.” Victor laughs, holding up his hands. He ticks off his fingers one by one as he replies, “It’s still noon, the kids are gone—I fed them breakfast and brought them to the station, and Phichit’s out cold on Yurio’s bed. He’s hungover too.”

Yuuri sighs, flopping back on his bed with relief. “ _Thank you_ ,” he says.

“Hey, you wanna transfer to my room?” Victor says. “We can wake up Phichit and push the beds together and watch stuff.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Yuuri says. “Help me up.”

Victor hauls Yuuri up and herds him into his room. Yuuri promptly heads to Phichit’s bed and pokes him awake. Phichit wakes up with a groan and tries to karate chop Yuuri in the side but misses. Makkachin, who was watching the exchange with curious eyes, leaps up at Phichit and starts barking when he tries to take another swing at Yuuri.

“Okay, okay, okay!” Phichit falls back to his pillow in surrender.

“Good boy!” Yuuri says, scooping Makkachin up like a baby. He licks Yuuri’s face; tail swinging so wildly with joy that Yuuri has to put him down again.

Makkachin hops on Phichit’s bed and slumps on top of Phichit’s stomach with a thump.

“Oof—You may have defeated me this time, but I’ll get you, Katsuki,” Phichit says, scratching Makkachin under the chin.

They spend the entire day recovering from last night’s merriment. Phichit rebooks his flight to tomorrow and busts out his laptop (he has an extensive collection of not-so-legally acquired movies); Yuuri pushes the beds together and perches Phichit’s laptop on a breakfast tray; and Victor runs downstairs to grab bentos and drinks for all of them. A good portion of the afternoon was dedicated to watching skating videos on YouTube, and drafting potential jump sequences for Victor’s free skate program. The rest of the time was dedicated to watching movies.

At some point, Mari brings them a tray of sushi from downstairs and joins their little viewing party. She flops down next to Phichit, and watches a few movies with them until she gives up and turns in for the evening.

They’re watching their last movie, Train to Busan, when Victor slams into Yuuri’s chest with a squeak—a wave of zombies just appeared. Yuuri laughs, his arms automatically winding around Victor’s shoulders in comfort. Yuuri meets Phichit’s eyes and Phichit raises an eyebrow at him. Yuuri rolls his eyes and nods—yeah, yeah, he remembers their talk from last night.

It’s something to think about.

And he will.

 

* * *

  

As promised, Yuuri thinks about Victor.

Two weeks into their regular training grind, Yuuri gets a chance to reflect on current events. He takes a good, hard look at his life. More specifically, Victor in his life.

It was weird, to say the least, how Victor is such an easy fit with his family. His family likes having Victor around—his father sometimes takes Victor aside after dinner to teach him how to play Shogi; his mother lets him help in the kitchen while they make idle chatter about little things like her favourite colour; and Mari, very keen to have her own real-life Barbie doll, weaves Victor’s hair in many different styles and Victor puts on a fashion show for her while she  _ooohs_  and  _ahhs_.

Once, Victor whined about Yuuri being too strict during training to Hiroko and Yuuri’s brain broke.

Victor was in the middle of a crisis. He wanted to choreograph his free skate but Yuuri kept insisting on nailing down the jump technicals first. They were about to have dinner when Victor had slumped on the table dramatically, and turned to Hiroko to whine, “Okaasan.”

Yuuri snapped to attention. Wait— _okaasan_?!

Hiroko fondly tucked Victor’s bangs behind his ear and responded with, “Yes, baby?”

_Yes, baby?!_

“Yuuri’s being mean.” Victor pouted.

Yuuri assumed his mother replied with something absurd, but he had drowned out the rest of the conversation in shock and can’t remember.

He sat numbly throughout the rest of dinner. What the actual fuck.

Even weirder, is how his family literally has nothing to say about Victor’s clinginess. Whenever Victor drapes over Yuuri, his family responds with a puzzlingly underwhelming ‘meh’ attitude.

Once, Victor managed slip into the circle of Yuuri’s arms and perch his elbows on Yuuri’s knees while Yuuri and Toshiya were playing Shogi. Toshiya blinked _once_ , then asked Victor to remind him what Yuuri’s previous moves were. And that was it; there were no awkward nonverbal cues, no uncomfortable gazes, no telling Victor to get off his son—nothing.

Yuuri is  _flabbergasted_  with this turn of events.

He brings it up with his mother one day (in quiet Japanese so Victor doesn’t understand), while they’re helping her make onigiri for guest lunch.

“ _Well, dear_ ,” Hiroko comments delicately, setting a tuna-filled onigiri on a plate. “ _He’s always been at your sleeve since he arrived. The only thing that changed was that you stopped complaining about it.”_

Yuuri glances at Victor, paranoid that he can hear them. But Victor’s busy trying to remember the lyrics to a Dean Fujioka song (“ _We were—born to make…mystery!_ ”), so Yuuri’s safe. Yuuri plucks a sheet of nori to cut into strips with a pair of scissors.

“ _He’s a nice boy_ ,” she continues, throwing a fond look at Victor, who smiles back at her.

“ _Mom_ ,” Yuuri warns. He can sense where this is going. He does not like where it’s going. It’s like dealing with Phichit all over again.

“ _You two are good together,_ ” she says nonchalantly, but a mischievous glint in her eye gives her away.

“ _MOM!_ ” Yuuri squeaks, and almost drops the scissors on his foot.

 

* * *

 

“No,” Yuuri says, crossing his arms.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Victor is incredulous.

“No, as in, no.”

“But Yuuri,” Victor whines.

“I said no, Victor.  _Nyet._ ”

Aside from the regular jump reviews and short program run-throughs, Yuuri decided to add a few more activities to Victor’s training curriculum. He started with practicing a pre-performance ritual with Victor as a little something to help with Victor’s absolute lack of focus before a performance. They go through it together before practice sessions for the short program to cultivate Victor’s competition mindset.

Victor had a lot of complaints when they had started, saying that he didn’t need to participate in this mumbo jumbo. It only took a few days before Victor was hooked; there seemed to be an element of zen that had him more focused on the routine. He’d never admit it to Yuuri but he’s glad Yuuri made him do it.

In addition to the pre-performance ritual was a series of analyses on Victor’s stamina and current skillset, in preparation for creating his free skate program. Yuuri had stressed the ineffectiveness of Victor’s previous program-building technique and proceeded to give a three-part saga on the importance of listening to your body, taking care of your body, and pushing its limits. Victor was just about ready to fling himself into the nearest trashcan and roll away, when Yuuri moved on to part three of the “treating your body right” lecture.

When Yuuri finally finished talking, Victor had made a vow to all the gods that he would take very good care of his body, as long he would never have to endure that torture again.

They’re starting a new discussion on Victor’s free skate options when Yuuri revisits their discussion from a few weeks ago, asking Victor about his plan for his free skate program.

Victor had started with, “Coach, can I use one of your old tracks for the music of my free skate? Anything from 1997-2015?”

“Sure, which one are you planning to use?” Yuuri said.

“It’s going to be a surprise!” Victor said. “I’m going to plan everything myself.”

And that was his mistake.

“Victor! That’s such an impractical way to train.” Yuuri frowned.

“But Yuuri, I really want to do it. I  _can_  do it!”

Which circles back to the “no” situation Victor is currently struggling with.

“But I  _always_  choreograph my own routines—always. And with the new things I’ve learned from you, I  _know_  I’ve improved. I want to do this on my own, please?” Victor bargains, pulling on the hem of Yuuri’s shirt. “If it makes you feel better, you can check my jump components and help me train.“

“How about the other program components?” Yuuri says.

“I already have them in mind. Minako-sensei will help me refine them!” Victor says with confidence.

Yuuri considers Victor with narrowed eyes for a while. Then, as though reaching a decision, he skates toward the boards and whips out his phone.

“What are you doing?” Victor calls out.

“I’m calling Yakov,” Yuuri says, swiping through the contacts on his phone.

“What—no—why?”

“I’m going to make sure you making your own program is a good idea.” Yuuri snaps on his blade guards and is out of the rink before Victor can say anything else.

Victor waits, carving worried circles into the ice while Yuuri talks to Yakov. The triplets keep him company, trailing after him and trying to forge a foolproof plan to eavesdrop on Yuuri. As the minutes tick by, their plan gets more and more extravagant. Victor’s sure he heard them arguing about who gets to rappel from the ceiling, and who has to hold the rope. They never get to execute it though, because Yuuri comes back, still looking incredibly doubtful about the whole situation.

“What happened?” Victor says, curious, excited.

“I got to talk to Yurio,” Yuuri tells him, smiling.

“And?”

“He told me his free skate is really good this year and he’s excited to show me.”

“And?”

“He still hates you. He says you took his shirt?” says Yuuri.

Victor tries to zip up his jacket as discreetly as he can. Yuuri glimpses a suspiciously familiar tiger print before the jacket closes. He shakes his head. Yep, that’s the shirt.

“And?” Victor says, trying to redirect suspicion. “What did Yakov say?”

“He backed up your choreo skills,” Yuuri says carefully. He takes a breath. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I guess this means you have my blessing to execute this weird plan of yours.”

“YES!” Victor sweeps him up in a hug. The triplets squeal in sympathetic joy and join the hug as well. “You won’t regret this!”

  

* * *

 

Yuuri regrets this.

He spends a pathetic amount of time hovering outside venues when Yuko or Takeshi or Minako kicks him out of free skate practices.

The first week was fine; Yuuri found the free time nice. He helped out at the inn, hung out with Mari, or just relaxed the way he intended when he first decided on his hiatus.

But one week of getting kicked out turned into two weeks of getting kicked out. And by the time they had reached the three-week mark, and it felt more and more like everyone was in on a joke except him. They lock him out of the rooms and immediately switch topics when Yuuri walks in on them talking about the details.

It’s driving him crazy. He  _needs_  to know what Victor’s program is.

He tries wheedling it out of Minako, but she’s craftier than Victor when it comes to evading questions, answering everything with infuriating vagueness and a twinkle in her eye. The Nishigori’s won’t crack either. Despite constant interrogation, Yuko and Takeshi stick firmly with their “sorry we can’t tell you” response with the experienced air of people who’ve had to wrangle three terrors. Leave it to them to bust out parenting techniques at a time Yuuri doesn’t care for it.

Even the three terrors themselves are keeping a surprisingly good lid on the secret. Despite all bribing and threatening and begging, the triplets won’t break. They just giggle, or run away shrieking. Or hide behind Takeshi.

“Buddy.” Takeshi holds out his arm and catches Yuuri around the middle, stopping him in his pursuit of Axel, who looked like she was about to let something slip.

She was Yuuri’s favourite among the three and Yuuri was  _this close_  to making her talk after giving her a solemn speech about not betraying her poor uncle Yuuri. But she started running when he got to the good part of his speech.

“You have to  _chill out_ ,” Takeshi says.

“I  _am_ chilled out.” Yuuri says casually. It would’ve been convincing if Takeshi literally didn’t just catch Yuuri chasing his daughter around like a madman.

“Chasing my kids around isn’t chill, you weirdo.” Takeshi sticks Yuuri in a headlock and ruffles Yuuri’s hair.

“I can’t ‘chill out’ when I don’t know the fuck Victor’s doing for his free skate.” He wrestles out of Takeshi’s grip. “I’m his coach, I should be involved. This is ridiculous. It’s counterproductive!”

“Don’t you trust him?”

“No,” Yuuri says. “With other things, probably, but this seems shady. For all I know, he could be stripping on ice or something.”

“He’s fine, he’s fine.”

Yuuri snorts his disagreement.

“Okay, if you don’t trust him, you trust us right? You trust me, Yuko, and Minako-sensei?”

“Yes…”

“So you gotta trust us to handle it. We’re keeping him on track.” Takeshi pounds Yuuri’s back reassuringly. “Plus, you’re still being consulted on the order of jumps and jump combinations, right?”

“Yes…”

“So there’s nothing to worry about!”

“God I hope you’re right.”

 

* * *

 

Time passes quicker than Yuuri anticipates and the end of October comes in the blink of an eye.

“So,” Yuuri says. He leans against the doorframe of Victor’s room, watching as Victor tries cramming two weeks worth of clothes into his tiny, ten-kilo check-in luggage. “Cup of China is in a week.”

“Yes, it is,” Victor says, trying to coax Makkachin to stand on the luggage so he can zip it shut.

“I still resent you for kicking me out of the free skate training,” Yuuri tells him.

“I still don’t care,” Victor shoots back, playfully sticking his tongue out.

Yuuri laughs fondly. Makkachin sits on the luggage and Victor fumbles around the corners of the luggage for the zipper tabs. He successfully inches them together and snaps on a padlock (“ _Yes!”_ ).

“You ready?” Yuuri throws the question out casually, raising an eyebrow at Victor when he meets his eyes.

The air between them is charged with excitement. This is it—the start of the Grand Prix Final Series. Yuuri grins at Victor.

Victor’s face splits into a shit-eating grin.

“Fuck yes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again :) As we get deeper into the story, I find myself having to make a lot of strange choices because of the dynamics. It's really interesting and it makes my brain hurt a lot what have I done
> 
> Much thanks to my team for chap4:  
> Kiara - for suffering through my habit of making too many run-on sentences and my occasional incoherence :))  
> Jacquielou - for the 6-ish hour phone call where I alternated between laughing hysterically and reading things at you >:D<  
> Cassi - for keeping my love for YOI fresh with random geekout sessions over fics and fanart :D
> 
> A few other things:  
> \- I revamped chap 1 and 2, just in case you're interested. Nothing major, added a few tiny paragraphs in chap 1 and fixed timeline-related things in chap 2  
> \- I think we all need a Phichit friend  
> \- I'd love to hear what you think so far!


	5. China’s On! It’s the First Competition!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to make a fake spoiler joke but since this is a MONTH overdue, I offer thee an apology in the form of a funny hotpot scene and a self-indulgent cutiepie Victuuri scene instead.
> 
> I'm sorry :((

 

They should be worrying about the Cup of China.

But out of all the things they should be worrying about—the last-minute costume checks, the public practice drills, and the press meeting game plan—what they do end up worrying about is Yuuri’s tie.

Somewhere deep in their sleep-deprived minds, Yuuri and Victor know this argument is a nano speck in the Grand Scheme of Things. Even deeper in their minds, probably floating somewhere between their Feelings™ and their coping mechanisms, is the knowledge that this argument is a front (of the flimsiest kind) to keep the real stress at bay. It wasn’t going to prepare them for possible media harassment, or stop the competition from happening, but here they were anyway—taking to the tie dilemma like a moth to a flame.

Out of all their grand endeavours to avoid real-world problems, this by far was the most ridiculous.

Neither could be blamed for their stellar decision-making; they’re fresh off a red-eye flight and exhausted. They only made it to the Shangri-La lobby alive because their incoherent stumbling from the airport was closely chaperoned by Minako and Takeshi. After a quick check-in and a routine exchange of extra key cards, Minako, Takeshi, Yuuri and Victor head to their respective rooms.

The first thing Victor does is fall, face-first, into the bed nearest the window, leaving Yuuri with the task of carrying in their luggage and making a perfunctory sweep of the room. As far as hotel rooms go, theirs lives up to conventional expectations of any deluxe double room. Layers of sanitized white sheets sealed over two queen-sized beds, a faint smell of stale cigarette smoke in the air, and wall-to-wall furnishing and decoration in warm shades of minimalist beige.

“Aren’t you going to unpack?” Yuuri says, unzipping his luggage.

Victor turns his head to eye his own luggage, standing in the little space between their beds, waiting to be unpacked. He ignores it and watches Yuuri unpack instead.

“Later,” Victor sighs. “Maybe.” Maybe if he’s cute enough Yuuri will do it for him. He rests his chin on his hand and kicks up his heels.

Yuuri doesn’t even glance in Victor’s direction. “Your clothes will wrinkle if they stay in the bag too long,” he says, pulling out a stack of clothes and setting them on the bed.

Victor makes a noncommittal noise and doesn’t move from his spot. Determined to stall as long as possible, he mentally notes the clothes sitting on Yuuri’s bed: slacks, jeans, pants, more pants, dress shirt, another dress shirt, a shirt, and—ew.

Victor bolts upright. “What is that?!” he says, horrified. He points at the top of the pile.

“My tie?” Yuuri says, holding it up for Victor to see.

It’s a standard tie: silk, fifty-something inches, and candy-striped baby blue.

It was nondescript in everyway.

And it was _hideous_.

“Why do you have that tie?” Victor eyes the tie with distaste.

Yuuri places it on top of his neatly folded clothes.

“Because I lost the one that came with my suit.” He pulls a garment bag out of his luggage and lays it next to the clothes.

“But why _that_ one?”

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“ _What’s wrong?”_ Victor repeats. Unbelievable. “What do you mean what’s—oh god, your suit. If your tie looks like _that_ , what does—”

Yuuri unzips the garment bag and pulls out an immaculate, three-piece suit. It’s a deep blue-grey colour and gorgeous, and it makes Victor stumble forward to inspect the details.

Victor holds the coat lapel with careful fingers. “Your suit is Armani,” he breathes.

“Yeah?” Yuuri says with a shrug.

“Your suit is _Armani_ and your tie _looks like that_?!”

Yuuri looks at the suit in his hands, then back at the tie, then back at the suit. He’s not sure what the point is because yes, his suit, in fact, is Armani, and yes, his tie in fact, looks like that. Whatever Victor’s appalled “ _that_ ” means, Yuuri has no idea.

He meets Victor’s disapproving frown with a confused frown before replying with, “Yes?”

Victor is positively _scandalized_ at Yuuri’s life choices.

“Your suit,” Victor says, enunciating each word clearly, “is _Armani._ ”

“And?” Yuuri says, tucking the suit back into the bag and hanging it in the closet.

“And your tie is too ugly for your suit,” Victor says.

“It’s not ugly!”

“It’s _super_ ugly.”

Victor glares at Yuuri in complete exasperation and Yuuri fixes Victor with a stubborn look. He is _not_ going to cave. He started winning the GPF’s when he bought that tie. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that tie.

“I’m going to burn it,” Victor declares, trying to snatch the tie.

Yuuri grabs it before Victor can get to it, and holds it just out of Victor’s reach. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“You’re a disgrace, Yuuri Katsuki. That’s it. I’m telling on you—I’m calling Phichit,” Victor says, frantically scrolling for Phichit on his phone.

Victor lunges for the offending piece of fabric. But he miscalculates the distance, tripping over the edge of Yuuri’s bed and landing next to his freshly unpacked clothes. Yuuri takes advantage of Victor’s disorientation. He plucks the phone from Victor’s grip and furiously taps the end-call button before Phichit picks up.

“But Yuuri,” Victor whines, reaching up to tug at Yuuri’s shirt.

“But nothing,” Yuuri says, bending to pinch Victor on the nose. “Off my bed. I want to take a nap.”

“Please, _please_ get a new one. I can’t be seen in public with you if you wear that,” Victor says, voice rendering as nasal from the pinch on his nose.

“You’re such a brat.”

Victor opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted when the door bangs open. In comes a wild-eyed Phichit—wearing sleep clothes and a mismatched pair of sneakers, thrown on in haste to attend to the potential emergency.

“I got a miss call from Victor, is something wro—” Phichit stops mid-sentence when he spots them: Victor, lying on Yuuri’s bed and pulling at Yuuri’s shirt, and Yuuri, one hand pinching Victor’s nose and the other holding a tie and Victor’s phone.

“ _O-HO-HO-HO!”_ Phichit says gleefully, whipping out his phone and snapping approximately a frillion photos. “If this is a new kink you’re trying, can I stay and watch?”

Victor swats Yuuri’s hand off his face and replies, “Sure!” He winks, and pats the spot next to him.

Phichit leaps at Victor’s invitation and lands next to Victor, right on top of Yuuri’s pile of neatly folded clothes. Yuuri groans. He’s going to have to re-fold all of that.

“How’d you even get in here?” Yuuri says, tugging the clothes out from under Phichit.

“Minako-sensei lent me your extra key card.”

Yuuri grumbles something about “security threats” and “privacy.” He gives all his clothes a half-assed fold before he dumps them in a drawer.

“So, tell me what’s this new kinky bedroom thing with the nose-pinching and the tie-holding?” Phichit says, swiping through his camera roll for the perfect Insta-worthy photo.

“You are _not_ posting anything on Instagram!” Yuuri snatches Phichit’s phone. He moves to the closet, poking at the closet safe until the phones are locked-in with a code. “Your phones are confiscated until you two learn how to behave. Now get off my bed! Hop to it!”

“Oh god, Grandpa Yuuri mode—activated!” Phichit says.

Yuuri grabs one of the massive pillows on his bed and launches a relentless attack. “Get. Off. My. Bed!” Yuuri says, punctuating each word with a solid hit.

Victor and Phichit rush to defend themselves, alternating between shrieking and trying to use each other as a human shield. Victor sees an opportunity and manages to snag Yuuri’s tie in the scuffle. He scrambles out of the way to hold the tie hostage on his own bed.

“Stop!” Victor says. “Give us the phones or the tie gets it!”

“Oh, _why_ Yuuri? _Why_ do you still have that damn tie?” Phichit wails.

“HA. I knew Phichit would agree with me!” Victor furiously shakes the tie for emphasis. He turns to Phichit, who has now joined him on his bed. “It’s _ugly_ right?”

“SO UGLY!”

“What the crap did I do to deserve this?” Yuuri laments. “I just wanted to unpack and take a nap.”

“First of all, you bought that ugly tie,” Phichit says.

“Second of all, you took our phones,” Victor adds.

“Fine, _fine_.” Yuuri sighs. “If I give your phones back, can you give me back my tie and let me take a nap?”

Phichit and Victor exchange looks while Yuuri retrieves their phones.

“You have five seconds to agree or the phones go in the toilet,” Yuuri says in a last-ditch effort.

They fling Yuuri’s tie in his face and snatch the phones from his hands before Yuuri can say another word.

“Actually, a nap sounds great.” Phichit yawns. “Can I crash here?” he says, already removing his shoes and settling in Victor’s bed.

“Yeah, whatever. Just let me _sleep_ , goddamnit,” Yuuri says.

Phichit’s already spread-eagled and snoring by the time Yuuri and Victor change out of their street clothes, and Yuuri turns off the lights and Victor draws the drapes. Yuuri’s setting an alarm on his phone when he feels Victor flop next to him on the bed.

“You’d better not steal my pillow,” Yuuri says sleepily, removing his glasses and handing them to Victor.

“ _Hai, hai,_ ” Victor says, putting the glasses on the nightstand. He tugs off his shirt and curls himself around one of the four pillows on Yuuri’s bed. “Yuuri?”

“Mmm?”

“Cup of China game plan?” Victor reminds.

“Later. Nap first,” Yuuri mumbles. “Later problems for later solve.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s Yuuri who breaks first.

The Cup of China is a vicious arena of which Yuuri and Victor are intimately familiar. Several years’ worth of experiences with the fans, the competitors, and the media has taught them the rules of the game. Crowd hurdling is easier with a facemask or hat; press meetings are most tolerable after three shots (two espresso and one Kahlua); heading back to the room is safest when using service halls; and when all else fails, _run_.

By now, navigating the obstacles is second nature to them: how to approach the fans; the amount of selfies and autographs one can safely offer without getting trapped in an impromptu meet-and-greet; how to identify the type of interviewers to avoid; which strategically-phrased questions can go off like landmines.

The arena markers remain the same, but considering the new elements of this season—The Skating Legend and the Rising Star of Russia, linked together as mentor and apprentice—they couldn’t take comfort in knowing the lay of the land. It was a familiar course with a cruel upgrade; one wrong move and they both fall apart.

Yuuri thought about all their respective red flags at length. For Victor, it was going to be managing his competition mindset: honing focus before his performance and keeping a level head during his performance. For Yuuri, it was going to be managing the public: the expectations of his role as coach and the questions following his disastrous exit from the previous season.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, smiling at the phone in his hand. He waves at Yuuri to sit with him.

Yuuri glances at Victor, already dressed for today’s press event and sitting on his bed, somewhere to the left of six pillows (two of which were stolen from Yuuri’s bed), and to the right of his upended luggage (brutally gutted in his search for the “perfect outfit”). Victor tilts his head to the side, hair gathering over one shoulder; the still-damp tips leave wet dots on his shirt.

Victor coos into the phone before he holds it up for Yuuri to see. “Come say hi to Makkachin!”

“Hi Makka,” Yuuri calls out half-heartedly from his spot by the full-length mirror.

Victor peeks at the screen and sees Makkachin’s ears perk up at the sound of Yuuri’s voice. He lets out a short bark ( _“Boof!”_ ) and wags his tail.

“Aw, Yuuri you have come here. Makka can’t see you from there!”

“Mmm,” Yuuri replies. He just finished fussing over which belt to use, and is now preoccupied with meticulously buttoning his shirt, brow furrowed and lips pressed in a tight line.

Victor’s been talking nonstop this morning—saying something about “having fun” and “dinner” as they brushed teeth, bits of foam flicking whenever Victor hits an ‘s’ or ‘f’ in his sentence; and something else about “hotpot” as he toweled off his hair, and Yuuri shrugged on a shirt. Now, he’s on Skype with Makkachin (courtesy of Mari) and has been trying to get Yuuri’s attention for _something_ , but Yuuri’s too worried to process anything outside today’s obligations.

The skaters call this day, the day before the competition, “The B-Day.” It’s a Cup of China prep event wherein media crews scramble to get as much B-roll as possible, to fill in the gaps in the live broadcast. Everyone—various international parties categorized under the following: media, skaters, and coaches—is crammed into a function room and made to work together, bumping shoulders in their freshly pressed shirts and nice dresses. It’s a tedious process, but each recorded interview and sound byte is important so everyone’s learned to disguise the gritting of teeth with a smile.

“Yuuri?” Victor says again, after he said his good-bye’s to Makkachin, and his thank-you’s and take-care’s to Mari.

Yuuri doesn’t respond, ignoring Victor in favour of working on his shirtsleeves. Victor walks over to Yuuri but he pauses, unsure, a few feet away.

Yuuri can feel Victor carefully watching him as he fidgets with the cuffs of his dress shirt, rolling and un-rolling them, unsatisfied with the length each time it’s rolled up to his elbows. He looks at Victor, whose puzzled look softens as he seems to come to a realization.

“Here, let me.” Victor walks up to him and slowly tugs his fingers away.

Yuuri shrugs his consent with a frustrated huff. Victor works on his sleeves until they sit in perfect folds, just above his elbow.

“How’s that?” Victor says softly, tucking in a stray crease. He skims his fingers down the length of Yuuri’s forearm until he can loosely clasp Yuuri at the wrist, his thumb gently stroking over Yuuri’s pulse.

“It’s fine,” Yuuri says curtly. “Are you done? We have to go.” He pulls away.

There’s a beat of hesitation before Victor replies.

“I’m ready,” he chirps, curling his fingers around Yuuri’s left elbow, as they move to leave the room. “Are you sure _you’re_ ready?” Victor teases. “Are you sure about your belt?”

“Yes, yes, the belt’s fine,” Yuuri says. He takes Victor’s palm and pulls his elbow free from Victor’s hold.

Victor’s hand drops to his side. Yuuri unlatches the lock on their door and pulls the key card from its slot on the wall, swinging the door open as the room dims. He’s halfway out the door when he notices Victor hasn’t moved.

“Yuuri,” Victor says.

Yuuri doesn’t turn around, choosing instead to respond with, “Come on, we have to go.”

“Yuuri—”

“We’re going to be _late_ ,” Yuuri grinds out, impatience brewing in his chest like a distant storm.

“ _Hai, hai_ ,” Victor says, snagging Yuuri’s wrist and pulling him toward the elevator.

The moment they step into the elevator, Yuuri twists out of Victor’s grip to punch in the button for the second floor.

Victor stands next to him quietly. In the time he’s spent time with Yuuri, he’s seen how Yuuri tends to internalize all his negativity, but it’s never gotten to a point where Yuuri’s cold toward him. Victor still isn’t sure how to talk to Yuuri when it comes to moments like this, but he’s hoping that pressing his arm against Yuuri’s is reminder enough that he doesn’t have to do this alone. The stress isn’t solely Yuuri’s to take—this challenge is something they’re going to conquer together.

Yuuri watches the elevator’s LED panel tick down floor numbers until they reach their destination. _Grand Ballroom B—the press meet is in the Valley Wing, Grand Ballroom B_ , he reminds himself.

They enter the room and are separated almost instantly, different media crews pulling them apart for their respective B-roll clips. Yuuri gives Victor a reassuring squeeze at the elbow, before he’s swept away by a stampede of Russian reporters. Yuuri allows himself to be herded into a corner table filled with international sports reporters, all sitting still while their personal make-up teams rush to powder and blend them to television-appropriate perfection. Several media crews are assembled in the vicinity, tense and waiting for the go signal.

An intern from one of the East Asian crews who Yuuri supposes is about twelve, approaches him and hands him a bottle of water, label peeled off for sponsorship issues.

“They told me to tell you we start in five minutes, Mr. Katsuki,” she says, nervously twisting the tail end of her ponytail.

He gives her a small smile and takes the bottle. “Okay, thank you,” he says. She bows stiffly and scampers back to her crew.

Through the low, continuous babble of the crowd, Yuuri picks up on the familiar lilt of Victor’s laugh. He looks over at the table where Victor was placed and sees him, lively as usual and charming his way through his interviews. A small gaggle of interns from a Chinese media crew are hanging off of Victor’s every word and nodding attentively—never mind that he’s speaking Russian and they can’t understand any of it.

Yuuri scans the crowd, mentally noting the attendance of the skating contingent: Leo de la Iglesia sits somewhere off to the side, casually chatting with a group of American reporters; Minami and his coach sit at the same table as Georgi Popovich and Yakov, politely taking turns answering questions and making small talk; Chris, apparently already bored with his interview group, left his coach to flirt with a pretty red-haired sports reporter from Australia; and Phichit is at his table, smack dab in the middle of the room, and already taking a hundred selfies with the media crews for the traditional Let’s Tweet This phase of his interview session.

His own interview session hasn’t even started and Yuuri is already wishing it were over. He can feel it—the worry, the impatience, the anxiety, whirling together and building up and up and up, until there’s a hurricane in his chest.

Five minutes later, almost on the exactly to the second, everyone is seated and ready to go.

An American reporter clears her throat and starts. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Katsuki,” she says.

Her honey blonde hair is coiffed to crisp curls on either side of her face, and it moves as one whole piece whenever she turns her head. _Lisa_ , Yuuri thinks, faintly remembering those immovable curls when she introduced herself, back in Skate America 2013.

“Nice to see you, Lisa,” Yuuri says.

“I guess we should start with the first thing everyone is dying to know: when are you coming back?” Lisa says, flashing him a smile. Other interviewers nod in agreement and the surrounding crews press their microphones forward for Yuuri’s answer.

“It’s too early to say. I’ve been too busy coaching Victor Nikiforov to think about anything else,” Yuuri says diplomatically. He realizes, with a rumbling lurch in his chest, that this is going to lead to questions about his hiatus. He hastens to redirect their attention with, “Coaching Victor has been a rewarding experience. He’s worked hard and made a lot of progress in the months that we trained together, and I’m excited for you to see his programs.”

Everyone at the table nods, and for a few seconds, no one speaks. It’s been a while since Yuuri Katsuki has entertained questions from the media so everyone’s rapport is a little out of practice.

“What…what were the challenges you and Nikiforov faced during training?” says a young, freckled reporter from Canada—Al, Yuuri remembers. Al, the intern from last year’s Skate Canada, who almost switched their glasses when he bumped into Yuuri during the post-competition interview rush.

“Definitely the differences in training styles and training schedules,” Yuuri answers with a smile. He remembers their first few weeks together, back when Victor and Yurio had to be dragged out bed for their morning jog, and lectured for days on portraying the right emotion in their performances. “The first week was a major adjustment for all of us—for Victor and I, and for Yuri Plisetsky, who was with us for the first month.” Yuuri chuckles. “Too many mornings were spent trying to wake them up for our 6 a.m. calisthenics.”

The crowd laughs with him and the strained atmosphere eases. The question-and-answer rhythm flows smoothly after that. For a while it’s easy, the questions are simple and lead to entertaining answers, and it almost makes Yuuri forget the painful anxious storm wearing him away from the inside out.

Then, it all comes back in a terrifying surge when a reporter from another table suddenly butts in with, “So, what made you take the break?” His friendly face does nothing to lessen the sting of his next question, “Have you decided to give up on your skating career to switch to coaching?”

And just like that, a floodgate opens and uninvited media representatives pour in. They crowd around Yuuri, asking question after question—a relentless prodding at old scars and bruises that haven’t fully healed. Yuuri answers the questions as calmly as he can, but the attention is suffocating. It’s painfully reminiscent of when he was a skater—only now it’s amplified. Pressure mounting beneath his ribs until it becomes a physical pain.

Poor, sweet Minami unknowingly delivers the final blow.

He’s been hovering during a short break between interviews, intent on showing Yuuri the costume he had custom-made for his short program. Somewhere during the fourth wave of questions, Minami finally catches Yuuri’s attention and he lifts an iPad. On the screen is a photo of Minami wearing his short program costume. It’s a dark, glittering gladiator-type outfit, inspired by Yuuri’s Lohengrin performance from several years ago.

The gesture, although kind in its intention, has less-than-kind results. It’s like a hard slap in the face—a glaring reminder of the mistakes Yuuri made when he performed Lohengrin. The flubbed jump, the under-rotation, the near miss on his triple-double axel jump combination—never mind that he won gold that year. Yuuri’s hits never held as much importance to him than his misses.

And this costume, this reminder of his dark past, brings into focus Yuuri’s latest failure: walking out before the season was over.

“Excuse me,” Yuuri says, abruptly cutting the interviewer off, mid-question, and striding out of the room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Like many others, Victor knew things about Yuuri Katsuki from carefully collected data and years of following Yuuri’s career. In a thick binder wedged under Victor’s bed back home were magazine clippings where Yuuri shared his favourite ice cream flavor, or favourite brand of skates; sports articles where he discussed his pre-competition rituals; TV interview recordings where he talked about his hobbies and his dog named Vicchan, who Victor liked to daydream was named after him; and several limited-edition fan items, with Yuuri Katuski trivia printed on the packaging.

Now, Victor _knows_ Yuuri Katsuki. He’s spent enough time diligently gathering data on Yuuri’s habits: he doesn’t own a hairbrush; he takes his coffee without sugar and at room temperature; his irritation usually manifests in a twitch of his eyebrow; and when his grin carries an upward slant to the left, it means he’s planning something mischievous and Victor needs to start running ASAP.

It’s why, when Victor spots Yuuri brisk-walking out of the room, jaw set tight and posture rigid, Victor knows Yuuri has reached breaking point.

He politely excuses himself from his own interview and trails after Yuuri, who speeds through several corridors until he finds a restroom tucked in some deserted corner on the ground floor. Victor waits a few moments before he enters. He finds Yuuri in one of the restroom lounge chairs, eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Yuuri hears footsteps approach and lifts his head, glasses sliding down his nose. He comes face to face with Victor, who kneels in front of him to place his hand on Yuuri’s knee. He peers at Yuuri with a searching gaze and doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll be out in just a minute,” Yuuri says dismissively, patting Victor’s hand off his knee.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

Yuuri doesn’t reply.

“Yuuri?” Victor says, pushing Yuuri’s glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Yuuri waves Victor’s hand away from his face and he stands. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Victor follows him. He sighs, “Yuuri, wait.”

Yuuri turns his back on Victor to walk toward the exit.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Victor repeats, his tone uncharacteristically stern.

Yuuri pauses. “What?”

“Turn around.”

Whatever Victor’s planning, Yuuri knows they do not have time for. There are a thousand other things they have to do, rather than stand in the middle of an empty restroom. There’s raging in his chest that he needs to conquer immediately and a schedule to be followed.

“Victor, we don’t have time for—”

“I said, _turn around_ ,” Victor says firmly.

Yuuri scrubs a frustrated hand across his nape and turns, ready to sermon Victor into the next century for stalling their schedule for whatever _this_ is and—

Oh.

Victor walked right into Yuuri’s space and slipped his arms around Yuuri’s waist, effectively distracting Yuuri’s haywire mind from its ceaseless fretting.

Yuuri stiffens, his focus zeroing in on the solid warmth against his chest, the touch of Victor’s hands, his fingers gently pressing into the curve of Yuuri’s shoulder blade and the dip of his spine.

“Wha—” Yuuri sputters. He feels himself burn pink all the way up to his scalp. “What’s this?”

Victor tucks his head into the side of Yuuri’s neck.

He murmurs, “You’ll get wrinkles if you keep frowning,” into Yuuri’s shoulder.

“I’m not frowning.”

“Yes you are. Frowning and _super_ grumpy.”

“I’m _not_ grumpy _,_ ” Yuuri says, grumpily.

Victor laughs. He pulls away to smooth the crease between Yuuri’s brows to prove his point. “Shut up and hug me back.”

He presses close and rests his chin on Yuuri’s collarbone.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Brat,” Yuuri says, but he complies anyway. “Three minutes,” he adds, body curving around Victor as he relaxes into the hug.

For a while, Yuuri loses himself in the calm—in shape of Victor’s arms, of Victor’s weight against him. He forgets to track the seconds that tick by, forgets that he walked out on his table mid-interview, forgets that they’re not in Hasetsu. He sinks into the familiar comfort that is Victor, grounding himself with the smell of Victor’s grapefruit conditioner, the strength of Victor’s arms around his waist, the gentle press of Victor’s ribs against his.

He gets yanked back into the restroom, into Shangri-La Beijing, when Victor pulls away to look Yuuri in the eye.

“Three minutes,” reminds Victor, lips curving up into a small smile. A few strands of hair stick to his cheek. “You okay?”

Yuuri distantly remembers the abandoned B-roll session in the second floor. The crushing panic in his chest is gone, his only focus is Victor in his arms and the pleasant tenor of Victor’s voice. He brushes the hair off Victor’s face, fingertips pushing the strands back and weaving through the length of Victor’s hair until they come to a rest at the base of his skull.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says softly, thumb tracing along the ridge of Victor’s jaw. “Thanks.”

Victor’s lips part slightly to reply, and Yuuri finds himself drawn to the movement, leaning in a fraction of a centimeter closer before he hears Victor say, “Let’s go?”

Yuuri blinks, then steps back and flashes Victor a grin. “Yeah, let’s go,” he says.

With mocking flair, he offers his arm to Victor before turning toward the door. Victor laughs, linking his arm in Yuuri’s as they make their way back.

They bump into Phichit on the way in. Hovering for a moment by the entrance to the Grand Ballroom, Phichit gives Yuuri a once-over and raises his eyebrow questioningly. Yuuri raises an eyebrow in return.

“Okay, okay,” Phichit says with a knowing smile. He turns to Victor and winks. “Not sure what you did but good job!”

Victor laughs and Yuuri rolls his eyes.

“Go away, Phichit,” he deadpans.

“See ya later!” Phichit says, smacking Yuuri on the ass before he runs away, laughing.

“Phichit!” Yuuri squawks, frantically scanning the area for any witnesses. If a photo of the ass-smacking ends up on the Internet, he is going to _kill_ Phichit.

Victor detaches from Yuuri before they enter the room, and they separate to pick up where they left off. Yuuri, evidently feeling in the right state to make social rounds, makes his way to his group of interviewers. He apologizes for the interruption and answers a few more questions to wrap up their session. Moments later, Victor follows after him, keeping a respectable distance away and entertaining a few stray interns tasked with gathering extra footage while he waits for Yuuri to finish.

As Yuuri’s wrapping up his last interview, he hears a shout in angry Russian and whips around just in time to see Victor appear at his side, breathless and looking very pleased with himself. Behind Victor he sees Yakov, on the other side of the room, fuming and glaring daggers at the back of Victor’s head as he unflattens his hat and readjusts it at a more dignified angle on his head.

“What did you do?” Yuuri asks dryly, not liking the suspiciously happy look on Victor’s face.

Victor beams up at him and says, “Nothing. I just asked Yakov if he wanted to join us for dinner.”

“And?”

“He said no.” Victor grabs Yuuri’s hand and pulls him away. He throws a wink and an overly sweet goodbye at the abandoned interviewer, who lets them go with a helpless, love-struck grin.

Yuuri scolds Victor about manners and proper social graces, but Victor isn’t listening. He’s rambling on about “pre-game” and “everyone hotpot” while pulling Yuuri up to their room to rest before they go out again.

 _Just go with it_ , Yuuri thinks, as he sits on his bed, staring flatly at Victor, who hasn’t stopped talking since he dragged him away from that last interview. If there’s one thing he’s learned in the last few months of being with Victor it’s: go with it or be incurably burnt out from Victor’s excessive enthusiasm.

Maybe a hotpot dinner will do them all some good. He might need a beer to help prepare him for tomorrow’s mayhem: first day of the competition.

Yuuri pulls out his phone and texts an invite to Phichit, Minako, and Takeshi. He looks over at Victor, who’s _still talking about hotpot_. He sighs. Yep, he’ll definitely need a beer.

Or five.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The restaurant Victor chooses is insanely huge and insanely crowded. Yuuri wants to leave immediately upon seeing the waiting line, which stretches several meters from the hostess’ little reception counter and out the front door. Yuuri turns to Victor with every intention of hauling him away from his long-awaited hotpot—never mind that Victor’s been excited to eat here since before they left Japan. Never mind that there’s a hundred percent chance of Victor whining, and a fifty percent chance of Victor crying.

Yuuri’s a grown-ass man. And if he wants them to go back to the hotel, they are going back to the hotel. Opposing forces be damned.

His plan encounters a speed bump when Victor gears up for a preemptive pout. Damn it.

Then, it derails completely when a waiter zips by with a tray of Shanghai crab: steaming and delicious-looking. _Damn it._

They end up staying.

They’re standing eighth in line and patiently waiting for their turn when a well-dressed lady breaks away from a conversation with the headwaiter and makes beeline for them. She greets Victor and Yuuri with a bow before she shakes Yuuri’s hand, introducing herself as the owner of the establishment.

“Hello, hello!” she says. She holds Yuuri’s hand a few seconds longer than the initial, polite shake before she lets go. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Katsuki. My name is Waverly Jong.”

Something about the way she holds herself reminds Yuuri of a few talk show hosts he’s encountered in the past: over-the-top charm, obvious self-centeredness, and hell-bent on being the center of Yuuri’s attention. The overall effect is a little off-putting, especially after today’s events, but Yuuri doesn’t want to be rude, so he responds on autopilot. He smiles politely, shakes her hand, and tells her it’s nice to meet her.

Unlike the talk show hosts, Waverly’s ears turn pink and she covers her mouth shyly when a giggle escapes her. She seems genuinely friendly—albeit a little too forward—taking Yuuri by the arm and yanking him out of the line toward one of their finest tables.

“Oh—uh, thank you, we’d be more comfortable waiting for our turn,” says Yuuri, gently pulling his arm away from her.

She smiles sweetly at Yuuri and bats her eyelashes. “Mr. Katsuki, I _insist_ ,” she says, hanging on to Yuuri’s arm.

Victor appears at Yuuri’s other side.

He flashes Waverly a smile, suspiciously bright and tight at the corners. “You’re too kind, Ms. Waverly!” he says cheerily. He slips into Yuuri’s side to stubbornly clamp him around the waist. “Lead the way!”

Yuuri automatically rests his arm around Victor’s shoulders as Victor gestures for Waverly to walk ahead.

Yuuri’s too busy staring longingly at the food on the tables they pass to notice how absolutely _smug_ Victor looks when Waverly drops Yuuri’s arm.

“Here you are, Mr. Katsuki, Mr. Nikiforov,” Waverly says when they arrive at their table. It’s a large booth that seats ten, with privacy screens on three sides. “A server will be with you in a while.”

Yuuri smiles at her. “Thank you, Ms. Jong.”

“Hope you enjoy your meal.” She bows and bustles away.

It takes two tries to get everyone together. Their first try goes sideways because Takeshi makes a mistake with Google Maps and leads Phichit and Minako to a hair salon, several blocks away.

Victor’s on the phone, trying to give Phichit directions to the restaurant, but Victor’s idea of giving directions is unhelpful ( _“So after you see the statue of the lion, you have to turn left and keep going until you see that pedestrian sign with the weird graffiti that kinda looks like angry banana but isn’t.”_ ), so Yuuri has to take over. He tells Phichit how to get to the restaurant using street names and the more traditional north-south-east-west directions, then instructs Victor to stand outside to wait for them.

With Victor safely out of the way, Yuuri pokes his head out of their booth to order four shots of sake on the sly. He frantically motions for the waitress to bring them over so he can gulp it all down and have the evidence whisked away before Victor comes back. He knows it’s not the responsible thing to do but today was disaster and tomorrow is a disaster-waiting-to-happen, so screw it. He’s going to drink tonight. Tomorrow—he’ll be responsible tomorrow. Today is the day to mope and drown in booze.

Well, as much booze as Victor will let him have.

He’s successfully on his way to tipsy and covering his tracks with a beer by the time everyone arrives at their booth.

Phichit whistles. “Fancy table we have here! Oh, who else is coming?”

“No one,” Yuuri says. “The owner randomly appeared and insisted on giving us a big table.”

“Having fans must be nice,” Takeshi says. He shrugs off his jacket before he slides into the seat across Yuuri’s.

He laughs as Yuuri blushes and says, “She was just being polite.”

“Mr. Katsuki, whatta a dreamboat!” Phichit says, waiting for Victor to slide into their side of the booth before he sits.

“Yeah, she was practically drooling with all the ogling,” Victor grumbles, scooting in next to Yuuri. He leans hard into Yuuri’s left shoulder with a small scowl. “So unprofessional. What she should be doing is making sure her restaurant has more space for her customers, instead of flirting with take— _busy_ , innocent men patiently waiting for hotpot. Her stupid, tainted, flirty hotpot.”

Yuuri lifts his arm to accommodate Victor. “She was not ogling.” He laughs. After all the stressful things they’ve had to deal with today, _this_ is what Victor chooses to grumble about. He pats Victor’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Drinking already?” Takeshi teases, as a server speeds by to drop a stack of menus.

“Drinking already,” Yuuri says, raising the beer in his other hand and taking another swig. "You want one?"

"Nah, I'm good. Maybe when all this is over," Takeshi says.

“Oooh, one for me,” Minako says, flipping through the menu. “What food are we ordering?”

Yuuri nudges for Victor to flag down a waiter. He places an order for several more beers while Phichit cranes his neck to peer at Minako’s menu from across the table.

“Shanghai Crab!” Phichit says.

“Oh god, yes, _please_.” Yuuri says, arm still rhythmically patting Victor’s shoulder.

“Duck Blood!” Victor suggests cheerfully, also leaning over the table to look at Minako’s menu.

Yuuri’s hand slides off Victor’s shoulder. He rubs between the shoulder blades, before he pulls away to flip through his own menu.

“No,” Yuuri says, scanning the page with the main dishes.

“Drunken Shrimp!” Victor says.

“ _Nyet,_ Victor.”

After too many vetoed food choices they finally settle on Shanghai crab, fried rice, sweet and sour pork, broccoli with beef, and an assortment of meats and greens for the hotpot. Phichit wants to invite Ciao Ciao and Minami and Leo, so he does. By the time they arrive, the food is on the table and Minako’s sufficiently tipsy, halfway through a rant about some Japanese drama she’s watching.

Yuuri watches in amusement as Minako waves her beer in a wide arc above her head to greet Celestino. She wiggles out of Takeshi’s side of the booth and transfers next to Phichit before she continues her argument.

“No, no, _listen,”_ Minako says, as Celestino shuffles in next to Takeshi. She motions for Leo and Minami to sit next to him. _“_ If Ryuu just had the balls to kabedon Hanako, they’d fall in love and boom—happy ending!”

“Oh thank god,” Takeshi says to Celestino. “Can we please talk about not this?”

“What are they talking about?”

“Some Japanese drama Minako-sensei is obsessed with, Petals of the Heart.”

“Oh!” Celestino exclaims. “I love Petals of the Heart! I watched the latest episode before we left for China.”

Takeshi groans, “Not you too.”

Yuuri chuckles and starts helping himself to the sweet and sour pork. If they’re not going to start eating, he’s going to. Victor pushes his small plate toward Yuuri for the sweet and sour pork, and Yuuri gives him a several pieces of broccoli instead. Victor’s expression of betrayal lasts three seconds before Yuuri surrenders, laughing as he slides the pork onto Victor’s plate.

Yuuri doesn’t catch who, but he hears someone say, “That means the series won’t last as long and we won’t get to go on the whole journey of watching them fall in love.”

Victor gets a large piece of broccoli from his plate, dumps it on Yuuri’s plate and moves his plate as far from Yuuri as he can. He turns to Minako. “The journey is so much better! Minako-sensei, have you no romance?”

“Besides, who falls in love with just a kabedon?” Celestino says.

Yuuri offers him the plate of fried rice.

Celestino takes it gratefully, scooping some into a small bowl. “A kabedon isn’t romance!”

“I think it’s cute,” Minami says. He helps Victor drop a few ingredients in the bubbling pot of broth in the middle of the table.

“There are too many people in this argument,” Yuuri mutters and Takeshi nods violently. He grabs one of Yuuri’s beers, standing in a neat line on their end of the table, and takes a sip.

“I thought you weren’t going to drink today?” Yuuri teases, handing Takeshi the platter of Shanghai crab and more tissue.

“There is only so much Petals of Heart talk I can handle. It’s bad enough I hear this at home.” Takeshi pulls a crab leg. The rest of the crab follows, falling with a clack on his plate. “It didn’t have to follow me all the way here.”

“Just go with it. It’s better for your sanity. Trust me,” Yuuri says, tilting his head in Victor’s direction. “I have much experience in this field.”

“What’s a kabedon?” Leo says, pulling the plate of beef and broccoli and helping himself to a few pieces.

“Like, when a person pins another person to the wall but in a sexy way,” Phichit explains, accepting a plateful of food from Victor.

“That doesn’t sound romantic,” Leo says around a mouthful of broccoli.

“Yeah I don’t think you’re imagining it right,” Minami says to Leo. “What do you think a kabedon looks like?”

Leo turns to Minami and puts his forearm horizontally on Minami’s chest and mimes pushing him backward.

“Ohhhh no, no that’s not it.” Minami laughs.

“Yeah, a kabedon’s more like—” Victor turns to Yuuri, who’s about three beers in and about to go for his fourth. Victor twists to face Yuuri. He reaches over to place his hands on either side of Yuuri’s head, hands landing on the screen behind Yuuri. “Something like this!”

“Oh ok,” Leo nods his head in understanding. “I guess that’s kind of cute.”

“Hi,” Yuuri says, smiling politely at Victor. Like he isn’t four inches away from his face, like Victor’s a stranger on the sidewalk that Yuuri’s asking to move out of the way. “Can I get my beer now?”

“Nope!” Victor says, hands dropping to wind around Yuuri’s shoulders. He throws Yuuri his most charming smile.

Yuuri lifts his hand and spreads it wide. He slowly pushes Victor’s face out of the way, ignoring the way Victor protests ( _“Rude!”_ ), so he can get a beer. But before he can curl his fingers around the neck of the bottle, Minako snatches it away. She takes a long gulp and slams it on the table in excitement.

“No, it has to have more feeling!” Minako insists. “Takeshi, kabedon me!”

“Uhhh how about no…”

“A kabedon,” Yuuri starts, loudly. He’s going to set things straight once and for all so he can _get a damn beer_. “Is like _this.”_

He leans over Victor and slams his hand next to Victor’s head, trapping him against the screen. He locks eyes with Victor, making the corner of his mouth tilt up in a crooked smile. Then he leans in close for dramatic effect, like the characters on Petals of the Heart. Yuuri holds the pose for a beat before he pulls away, raising his arm in a “ta-dah!” pose. He finally manages to grab his beer.

Several things happen at once.

Victor gets pink in the face and squeaks out something in Russian.

Phichit triumphantly waves his phone around like a madman screaming, “YES!”

On the other side of the table, Minako and Takeshi shriek with laughter. Celestino chokes on a beer, Minami goes into shock, and Leo looks like he’s just been touched by an angel.

Yuuri starts on his fourth beer like nothing happened.

It takes everyone a solid five minutes to calm down from their hysterics, settling over their respective plates of food and idly chatting about the competition.

Victor, having recovered enough to remember to keep tabs on Yuuri’s drinking, yells, “Boozeblocked!” when he intercepts Yuuri’s fifth beer—just when Yuuri’s halfway through—taking it from Yuuri’s hand and drinking it himself.

So, with nothing else to do, Tipsy Yuuri takes a page from the Nikiforov’s Book of Feelings and Sulks™. Yuuri slings his arms around Victor’s waist and props his chin on Victor’s shoulder, alternating between listening to Victor and Phichit gossip over JJ’s new song, and watching Celestino and Minako try to out drink each other. Victor can be the adult tonight. As far as Tipsy Yuuri was concerned, adulting starts tomorrow.

Yuuri miserably goes over the day’s events in his head. He’s nowhere near as drunk as he’d like to be—how drunk does one have to be to make better life choices? He was bad with the press meet, either running his mouth without thinking or giving too-short answers. And—oh god, he left in the middle of an interview.

He was terrible at _everything_ today, starting with the press meet— _no_ , he realizes with guilt welling in his chest; starting with how he treated Victor that morning. He was cold and dismissive, when all Victor kept trying to do was cheer him up. He cringes at the memory, arms slightly tensing around Victor’s waist.

Victor, currently in the middle of listening to Leo’s counter-argument on the kabedon-for-romance issue, turns his head a little toward Yuuri.

“ _What’s wrong?”_ he murmurs in Russian.

 _Everything_ , Yuuri wants to say. He wants to tell him how he screwed everything up today, and how he’s probably going to screw everything up tomorrow, and how sorry he is for being absolutely shitty. But the guilt builds into a lump in his throat, and he can’t.

He can’t choke out the words to tell Victor everything he wants to say, so he just lets slip, in Russian, a small, “ _Sorry for today.”_

It isn’t much. It’s without context, and probably incorrectly phrased—Yuuri’s still a little lost with Cyrillic tenses and syntax. Victor doesn’t say anything, attention turning back to fish for meat and tofu from the hotpot, but he drops a hand down to touch one of Yuuri’s. Each time Victor’s thumb traces a line over Yuuri’s knuckles, it feels like he forgives him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri can see Leo and Minami staring, and Ciao Ciao looking on curiously with a small smile on his face. If this were any other day, he would’ve felt a little more self-conscious about letting his private habits out in public, but he’s tipsy and overwhelmed with worry, so he doesn’t care. And holding Victor feels nice. Holding Victor—Victor, who is warm and smells of home: the Katuski’s laundry detergent, Yuuri’s soap, and Victor’s own grapefruit conditioner—feels like he’s back home.

Dinner comes to an end when Minako’s speech slurs into an unintelligible Japanese-English hybrid, Celestino passes out on the table, and Yuuri almost falls off Victor’s shoulder. Phichit steps into the role of Designated Adult—calling time of death on dinner, footing the bill, and instructing the youngins to heave up the alcohol-fuzzy members of their party.

Leo and Minami are in charge of Minako. They help her amble out of the restaurant, supporting her elbows, and dutifully nodding while she lectures them on how to respect an independent woman. Takeshi is in charge of Celestino, who’s making his steps in big lunges like a giant, unstable bear. It takes Takeshi all of his concentration and full effort of his muscles to keep Celestino from falling over and crushing an innocent passer-by. Phichit and Victor are in charge of Yuuri, who’s relatively able and sober enough to walk on his own. The three of them link arms and bring up the rear of their strange parade, ensuring that they all make it safely to the hotel.

Yuuri sits on his bed, listlessly watching Victor arranging the many pillows on his bed. “You have too many pillows,” he tells Victor.

“But I like feeling like I’m sleeping on marshmallows,” Victor whines, looking at his bed with a critical eye, before rearranging them into a different configuration. “Plus, they’re meant to help support my spine, my neck, take the stress of my shoulders, and—”

Yuuri groans and stumbles into the bathroom to escape the rest of Victor’s pillow litany. He washes up and changes into his sleep clothes. By the time he trudges back to bed, Victor’s finally asleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s 4 a.m. of the day of the short program when Yuuri wakes up with a stiff neck and a numb right arm. He flexes his right hand, wondering why the fuck he can’t feel his arm when he realizes, sleepily, the cause of numbness: Victor is in _his_ bed, head resting on _his_ bicep and clutching one of _his_ pillows.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, voice low and heavy with sleep.

“Mmmmmm.”

“Victor, why are you in my bed?”

“M’sleeping,” Victor mumbles, burying deeper into Yuuri’s side. His head comes to rest on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Sleep in your own bed.”

“My bed’s crowded.”

Yuuri looks over at Victor’s bed. In the dim light, he can make out a mountain of misshapen lumps all over Victor’s bed.

“ _Why_?”

“I wanted to make sure I had my lucky charm ready,” Victor says. He blindly reaches for the nightstand and plops a cloud of fluffy, scratchy, _something_ on Yuuri’s face. “Lucky charm.”

Yuuri bolts upright after receiving a face full of mystery fluff (as one does) and roughly dislodges Victor from his shoulder.

Victor falls to the bed and groans, “Yuuri.” He tries pulling Yuuri back and promptly gets smacked away.

“ _This_ is your lucky charm?!” He stares at the blurry dark shape on his lap.

“It’s Makkachin!” Victor says, stretching for Yuuri’s glasses on the nightstand. He pokes at Yuuri’s face until he manages to get it on properly.

Yuuri holds it out for inspection. It _is_ Makkachin—more specifically, a brown poodle tissue holder, with curly acrylic fur, and black button eyes. What the actual fuck—more importantly, _why_?

But Yuuri knows better than to ask, so he settles for shoving the Makkachin tissue holder in Victor’s face and stealing his pillow back from Victor’s clutches. He earns a whine in response.

“Get out of my bed,” Yuuri says.

“Where am I supposed to sleep?”

“On yours.”

“But, _Yuuri_.”

“Not my problem.”

“Please, just now, please I’m too sleepy to clean it up,” Victor bargains. “I’ll use my own pillows.”

Yuuri huffs at him, rearranges his two pillows and faces away from Victor. He leaves enough space for Victor and his pillows though. Victor moves to extract four pillows from the mess of his bed but is forced to stop when Yuuri, who doesn’t even turn around, says, “Don’t even think about it, you fucking pillow hoarder. Two only. TWO.”

Victor pouts, but he obeys anyway and settles on Yuuri’s bed with the agreed-upon two pillows.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Victor croons sweetly in Russian, pressing the crown of his head between Yuuri’s shoulder blades.

“ _You’re annoying_ ,” Yuuri shoots back in Russian, his accent earning a chuckle from Victor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri’s tie is crooked.

It was already baby blue and _hideous_ , and now it’s crooked.

The tie keeps adding to Victor’s list of reasons why he needs to burn it. _One day,_ Victor promises himself, his fingers curling around the cheap silk material as he yanks Yuuri close.

There’s been a problem with everything today: how his bangs had settled during the night, the number of fruits in his mid-morning snack, and the precise angle at which Yuuri’s hair should be parted and slicked back.

“Ugh,” he says, undoing the knot to fix it into a respectable Windsor knot.

Yuuri ignores him, and inspects Victor’s hair. “Don’t move, I think you need more pins,” he says, pulling a few bobby pins from his pocket.

He secures a few loose sections of Victor’s hair into the braid while Victor wrestles with his tie.

The call time for the participants is exactly three hours before the competition starts, but they’re here _four_ hours before the competition starts because Victor suddenly decides a healthy dose of paranoia is what they both need today. Yuuri goes along with it without complaint and helps Victor navigate to the stadium, all the way into one of the assigned holding rooms.

The backroom they’re staying in is spacious, with enough tables and chairs for the skaters and their teams to hunker down in while they wait for the competition to start. Victor pulls Yuuri to the table nearest the emergency exit, figuring that running out of the stadium in a panicked rampage will be his Plan B if things get too stressful—to hell with the consequences. Yuuri’s the adult today. He can handle the mess Victor leaves behind.

Eventually, the room gains a population of twenty; with a steady increase of skaters, coaches, and authorized reporters as the actual call time approaches.

“It’s such an ugly tie.”

“You’re an ugly tie,” Yuuri teases, taking Victor by the chin to tilt his head to the side to check the rest of his braid.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Victor whines. He wiggles Yuuri’s tie left and right until it sits dead center, just below the hollow of his throat.

There’s a very faint squealing sound that ends when Yuuri glances over at Leo and Minami, who have just arrived and are standing near them and staring, jaws hanging open.

“Are you…okay?” Yuuri says as Victor finally gives up on his tie and returns to his side.

In perfect unison, Minami and Leo squeak out a flustered “Yes! Fine! Totally!” They don’t move from their spot and continue to stare.

Yuuri’s attention turns back to Victor, whose curling his fingers into Yuuri’s jacket pocket. Victor was nice enough to let Yuuri fall apart yesterday so Yuuri has to make sure he does his job as Victor’s coach today. He’s prepared for it, packing a small duffel bag with competition essentials: Victor’s water jug, the Makkachin tissue holder, hair spray, hair elastics, hair pins, safety pins, sewing kit, power bars, his make-up bag from last season, two towels, Victor’s skates, and other miscellaneous, “just in case” things.

“How about you, you okay?” Yuuri asks Victor, smiling playfully.

“Yes! Fine! Totally!” Victor chirps, which would have been convincing if he weren’t holding so tightly onto Yuuri’s left jacket pocket.

If Victor remembered Yuuri’s suit was _Armani_ and he was wrinkling it, he would’ve reeled in shock and pulled off the jacket so he could harass the nearest hotel into lending him their steamer and repent for his sins. It’s not like Yuuri minded a little wrinkle in his suit. If anything, it made him worried that Victor was too distracted by his nerves to be himself—to be Victor Nikiforov, Darling of Russia and Fashion Snob.

He’d attached himself to Yuuri’s side the moment they woke up, and only let go once: during the hour-long stretch they’d spent getting ready to leave for the Capital Indoor Stadium. All throughout breakfast, packing the duffel bag, making their way to the venue, and even while he briefly entertained a few fans that approached them on the way, Victor stayed firmly welded to Yuuri’s left side.

Yuuri’s learned in their time in Hasetsu that Victor responds best to tactile communication. Usually, Yuuri could just wrap his arms around Victor, hold him for ten seconds, and call it a day, but with a roomful of strangers—armed with camera phones and access to the internet—he’ll have to use subtler touches.

He knows he has to do something soon, before the nerves develop into a full-blown breakdown. Yuuri decides to test a theory. He presses his hand into the small of Victor’s back.

The result is immediately visible in Victor’s body language. He leans into Yuuri, posture relaxing, smiling a little easier, and even feeling good enough to leave Yuuri for a few minutes when a Russian reporter pulls him aside for a short interview.

Even with his limited Russian, Yuuri catches a combination of syllables that he knows translates to “grand master plan” and a few more that mean “greatest winning strategy.” That’s not good. He interrupts Victor to prevent him from saying something truly stupid.

When he’s sure Victor’s on the right track with his interview, he pulls away to attend nagging buzz in his head. It’s an instinctual reaction from decades of skating, urging him to run over his routine in his head and warm up and double, triple, quadruple check his costume, his hair, his skates. Only now Yuuri’s not competing. So stretching to appease the competition jitters turns into double-checking the contents of the duffel bag, dumping all it’s contents on the nearest unoccupied table.

He’s halfway through sorting contents of the make-up bag, when he hears a voice purr, “Why _hell-o_ , Yuuri,” and feels a hand on his hip, sliding down until it comes to rest on the curve of his ass.

If this happened to 2008 Yuuri, he’d have maxed out on embarrassment and spontaneously combusted. But sadly, he isn’t 2008 Yuuri, and sadly, this isn’t the first time it’s happened.

Yuuri lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Hello, Chris.”

It’s been years of this—of the same voice purring something absurd in his ear, and the same hand creeping down his hip to squeeze the flesh of his ass. Yuuri’s learned to accept being publicly groped whenever he was in the same room with Christophe Giacometti was going to be A Thing.

“You look _very_ nice in a suit,” Chris growls in his ear and squeezes his ass. “I see you got frisky without me last night.”

Yuuri feels _another_ hand settle on his other butt cheek.

“Two hands, Chris—really?” Yuuri deadpans.

Chris laughs.

“Hello mister dreamboat,” Phichit drawls in his sexiest Chris voice, as he squeezes Yuuri’s other butt cheek.

“What is happening—stop that,” Yuuri says. He smacks them away. They return to their respective butt cheeks when Yuuri resumes organizing his duffel bag. Yuuri sighs. The only thing worse than a playful Christophe Giacometti is a playful Christophe Giacometti with playful Phichit Chulanont. They’re already bad enough on their own. Combined, they’re the equivalent of a screaming drunk neon-coloured bachelor party rave at full-throttle in the heart of Las Vegas.

He briefly considers the merits of faking his own death to escape the consequences of their friendship.

“I heard the word ‘frisky’ and just _had_ to come over and join the party!” Phichit says.

“Ugh, Phichit,” Yuuri rolls his eyes. He’s still digging around in the duffel bag, and Chris and Phichit’s hands are still on his ass. “Chris, what are you talking about?”

Chris pulls out his phone and shows Phichit’s Instagram post from last night. It’s a photo that catches Yuuri mid-kabedon—Victor’s pressed up against a screen looking appropriately flustered, and Yuuri’s leaning over Victor, looking appropriately…inappropriate.

Yuuri feels his soul leave his body.

“Phichit—WHY?” Yuuri snaps back to consciousness and grabs the nearest object—the Makkachin tissue holder—and hits Phichit repeatedly.

Phichit unhands Yuuri’s ass to defend his perfect hair, and Chris just laughs, one hand _still_ on Yuuri’s ass.

Victor, still in the middle of an interview somewhere across the room, screeches, “No, Yuuri, don’t hurt my Makkachan!”

Yuuri tosses the Makkachin tissue back in the bag and pinches the bridge of his nose. Children. He’s surrounded by children.

“I’m—sorry—I couldn’t—resist!” Phichit says, in between fits of laughter.

“You suck! This makes it look like I was screwing around before the competition. Oh god.” Yuuri zips up the duffel back and faces away from the table.

Phichit and Chris _turn with him_ , with their hands still firmly cupping his ass. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri can see a cameraman slowly point a camera in his direction. Yuuri shoots him a withering glare and the camera disappears from sight.

“I’ve lost all motivation, how could you abandon me?” Chris whines. He turns to Phichit. “And you, how could you hotpot without me? I’m being betrayed by all my friends this year.”

“I’m sorry! I honestly forgot you were here—”

“Oh, _ouch_ ,” Chris says, wounded. “Does our friendship mean nothing to you?”

“No, no—I meant I kept thinking you were going to be at the NHK Trophy!” Phichit says.

“Oh okay.”

And _of course_ , this is when Victor finishes his interview and makes his way over to join their little party. Forget the screaming-drunk-bachelor-party-rave, Chris plus Phichit plus Victor equals the motherfucking Apocalypse: Death by Party Perverts.

“Is there still space for me?” Victor laughs.

And because Christophe Giacometti is _Christophe Giacometti_ , he says “No, sorry darling, none back here, but the front is all yours if you want it.” Yuuri doesn’t even have to turn around to know that Chris is winking and making lewd faces.

Yuuri decides he’s had enough.

He shoves everyone away and screeches, “OH DEAR LOOK IT APPEARS I AM BEING SUMMONED BY THOSE PEOPLE OVER THERE.”

He speeds away, determined to get as far away as possible even though he can hear all three of them dramatically wailing “you’re gonna give me abandonment issues” (Victor) and “come back into my sweet embrace” (Chris) and “betrayal of love and friendship” (Phichit).

 _Don’t look back,_ he tells himself. Never look back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The flat screen TVs have been on for around thirty minutes now, but it’s not until Yuuri sees the Cup of China logo fade to black and cut to live feed of the stadium that he starts paying attention. The commentators’ opening spiel blares from the speakers. They rally back and forth with introductions and playful banter while the screen shows pre-recorded footage, and then finally—

“ _Group one in the men’s singles short program is about to take to the ice.”_

The following response is immediate: all chatter and activities cease as the occupants of the room split into four groups—one for each screen. Yuuri wanders, with Victor close behind, to the least crowded corner to watch the first performance.

“ _First up is Phichit Chulanont from Thailand, age twenty-four. He took first at Skate America, first GPF event. If he does well here, he’ll qualify for the Grand Prix Final.”_

The cameras zoom in on Phichit, skating to the middle of the rink, handsome in his glittering red and gold ensemble.

Victor sidles up to Yuuri. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he whispers, “Phichit looks great.”

“He does,” Yuuri says.

Onscreen, Phichit takes a deep breath.

Yuuri can almost hear Phichit’s countdown (“ _and a-five, a-six, a-seven, eight!”_ ). In Detroit, Phichit used to countdown literally every time he ran through a routine. It was such a deeply-ingrained habit that anyone who’s ever trained with him also found themselves chanting along with Phichit when it was his turn for a practice run. Yuuri wonders what music Phichit’s skating to this year.

Phichit digs his left toe pick into the ice, cants his hips and throws his head back, ready with his opening pose, and waiting for the music to start.

Yuuri laughs—he knows that pose all too well.

When the first three seconds of the music’s opening vocals hit the air, Yuuri’s taken back to long afternoons in the Detroit Skate Club with Phichit. He’s lost count on how many times he had heard this song on loop during off-season skating sessions with Phichit and their other rinkmates.

“ _The music for his program is Shall We Skate from the King and the Skater, and the audience is already clapping along to the familiar theme.”_

During the off-season, it was tradition for everyone training under Celestino to invade the rink in the middle of the night to hold the GPFF: Grand Prix Faux Final. The GPFF only has one rule: everything has to be improvised. The only thing they were allowed to plan was the date and time.

They put together any and all materials available in the rink for this event. The old costumes stashed away in some corner of the locker room were dusted off and pulled on; whatever blazers or coats Celestino left in his office were worn by the “judges”; and the sound system was hijacked with a playlist of random favourite songs, put on shuffle for each “contestant” to perform to. They danced along to practically everything from Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up, to D12’s My Band.

But this song—this song was Phichit’s absolute favourite. He loved it so much that whenever it played, he would perform to it, whether or not it was his turn.

“Nice!” Yuuri says, grinning. “He’s wanted to skate to that music since he was a kid—he’s finally doing it.”

“ _The King and the Skater is the first movie Chulanont ever saw and had a significant impact on his life,_ ” one of the commentators says, as Phichit moves into his first step sequence.

“Oh god,” Yuuri laughs. “He made us watch that movie _so many times_.”

He earns a shush and a tug on the jacket from Victor, totally absorbed in watching Phichit dance across the ice.

“ _His first planned jump is a triple axel, let’s see how he does…”_

Victor sucks in a breath as Phichit takes off in a leaping spin. He lands with a triumphant grin on his face and spreads his arms wide. The crowd cheers.

_“Nailed it!”_

Phichit’s skating is a perfect match to his personality. His jumps have a signature whimsy that transforms a jump’s usual ferocity into something playful. He’s light on his feet and moves in such a way that draws the audience in; making them feel like they can jump right in and dance with him.

“Good job, Phichit,” Victor whispers to himself, fingers still tightly clutching Yuuri’s jacket pocket.

“ _More jumps coming up as he moves into the second half. Triple lutz, triple toe-loop, quad toe loop—yes!”_

Phichit moves through his program beautifully, nailing all his jumps and dancing through his step sequences, with the crowd on their feet and clapping along. When he finishes, he bows a sincere thank you, and the crowd shrieks their support and tosses flowers and plushies onto the rink. He shores up to the kiss and cry to wait for his scores.

Yuuri glances at Victor, who has let go of his jacket pocket to clutch his arm in a vice grip.

“I just want to see Minami’s first jump, and then we can do the warm-up okay?” Yuuri says, gently tugging Victor off his arm.

Yuuri wraps his arm around Victor’s shoulders. Victor nods distractedly, relaxing by two degrees. His eyes are glued to the screen for Phichit’s score. “It should be around a ninety-four, ninety-eight,” he murmurs.

“ _An impressive performance from Phichit Chulanont from Thailand. His short program score is 97.12! That’s a personal best for him by a good margin.”_

The ice is cleared of fan-thrown debris and Minami glides in. He spirals to the center of the rink, and waits for his music to start.

_“Next up we have a skater who distinguished himself at Skate America. Finishing third in the first event of the series, Minami Kenjirou of Japan, age nineteen. He is skating to Lohengrin. His first jump is a quadruple toe loop—”_

Minami zips forward in a sharp line. He scrunches his nose as he jumps, limbs held tightly together. He snaps upward, completing the rotations and landing perfectly.

_“—great!”_

Yuuri nods, satisfied with Minami’s first jump. He turns to Victor. “Okay, let’s go,” he says, leading Victor to the nearest open space.

He pulls out Victor’s phone and a pair of earphones, selecting the playlist Victor labelled “Cup of China <3” and putting the earphones in Victor’s ears.

As Victor proceeds with his warm-ups in silence, jogging back and forth along the wall, Chris makes his way over to watch Yuuri set up.

“He’s different,” he says, toeing the edge of the mat so that it’s perfectly parallel to the wall.

“I’m not sure I follow.” Yuuri fishes out Victor’s water jug from the bag and places it next to the mat.

“We’ve been running the same circles, Victor and I, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen him so disciplined.” Chris nods at Victor, who’s moved on to circling his arms, marking the positions of his step sequences.

“He worked really hard to get rid of his bad habits.”

“I think,” Chris pauses, “Most of this is your doing. The whole Doting Husband mode is working really well.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s called Being A Coach.”

“It’s called Doting Husband mode and you’re not going to convince me otherwise. I have to admit I’m a tiny bit jealous—where was this attention when I was flirting with you all those years ago?”

Yuuri laughs. “Go away, Chris.”

Chris sighs dramatically, “Alas, rejected again!”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, but he pats Chris on the back with fake sympathy for the fake dramatics. When Chris saunters away to his coach, Yuuri heads over to Victor to help him with his stretches. Yuuri has his hands pressing down on Victor’s thigh, stretching his leg toward his head, when a lady wearing a headset over her distressed ponytail pokes her head in the room to tell Yuuri and Victor to head up.

Victor checks the ties on his skates and peels off his blade guards, handing them to Yuuri before he enters the rink. He reacquaints himself with the space with a full lap.

With a minute left before he has to perform, Victor skates up to Yuuri’s spot by the boards to say, “Don’t take your eyes off me.”

Yuuri catches Victor’s wrist as he turns away. “Victor—”

“I know, I know. Mind my jumps,” Victor says winks, playfully threading their fingers together.

“That,” Yuuri pulls him forward. He smiles, despite a flash of confusion from the way his heart jumps when their foreheads bump together. “And, seduce me with all you have. Just like in practice.”

“Just like practice,” Victor says, grinning wildly before he pushes off from the boards.

_“Next we have Victor Nikiforov, age twenty-three, from Russia. He is skating his first program of the GPF, the music is, On Love Eros. He said his theme for his programs this year is love.”_

The rink is deathly silent as the audience waits. Victor stands, poised gracefully, in the middle of the rink, regarding the audience with a charming smile while he waits for his music. The all too familiar guitar riffing hits the air and his expression changes, arcing his arms around him before tossing his head back with a sensual smile. Right away, Yuuri can tell he’s got everyone’s attention. The audience swoons with each movement he makes.

 _Good opening,_ Yuuri thinks. He’ll have no problem moving through the rest of the program with a crowd reaction like that from the get go. Victor thrives on attention like this.

_“Well he’s certainly a different skater than we’ve seen in previous seasons. Maybe living with his coach Yuuri Katsuki has helped with his consistency, something he’s always struggled with. His first stunt is spread eagle and into a triple axel—he nails it!”_

Victor jumps, and sticks the landing. He moves seamlessly into his next sequence.

_“That was amazing!”_

Yuuri’s strategic touches seem to have done their job. Victor’s managed to shake off the last of his nerves; he’s throwing all of his best tricks and following the plan to a T. But, as the crowd cheers louder and Victor receives more praise from the commentators, Victor’s expression changes. A determined, narrowing of the eyes and slight manic smile that Yuuri recognizes as a foreshadowing of recklessness.

_“Next up is a triple toe loop.”_

Oh gods.

Yuuri holds his breath as he watches Victor jump up and—yep, there it is—turn his triple toeloop into a quad toeloop. His breath comes out in an exasperated huff as Victor miscalculates the landing, and slams into the wall.

The collective gasp from the audience and the commentators serves as the comical stinger to Yuuri pinching the bridge of his nose. So many— _so many—_ times Yuuri has warned him not to do exactly this. Goddamnit, Victor.

The rest of Victor’s program goes on without any more incidents. He finishes his final pose with a wink, and the crowd goes wild.

_“We have just witnessed the birth of the new Victor Nikiforov!”_

Victor zooms up to Yuuri at the mouth of the rink. He looks at Yuuri sheepishly, nose dripping, while Yuuri considers him for a moment, then finally holds out his arms for a hug. Victor leaps at Yuuri, but instead of a hug, a handkerchief materializes in Yuuri’s hand, and is promptly held against Victor’s face. Victor turns to Yuuri with narrowed eyes at the bait and switch.

“You can’t bleed on this. This is _Armani_ ,” Yuuri teases, but pulls him into a hug anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Victor is change, personified. He’s spontaneous, confusing, wonderful, exciting, and worrying, at all once. He came into Yuuri’s life and merrily burst through Yuuri’s meticulously structured walls without a second thought, rebuilding them into spaces to fit around him.

Since the beginning, Victor has been upending Yuuri’s quiet, balanced life; change taking form as a renewed tenderness in Yuuri’s Stammi Vicino, another challenge to overcome in Yuuri’s career, a new person in Yuuri’s inner circle, a kindness in Yuuri’s carefully curated destruction.

Victor was a storm that Yuuri welcomed and allowed himself to be swept away in, letting the water soothe a sharp ache of longing Yuuri didn’t know he had.

It’s why he had eventually accepted Victor’s affectionate habits. It’s why he had allowed himself to indulge in rare moments of initiating touch: with a hand on Victor’s back, with a nudge to Victor’s shoulder, and with fingertips gently weaving into Victor’s hair.

It’s why, when Yuuri pulls Victor into a hug, he twists his head just so, and presses his lips on Victor’s temple.

There’s approximately 0.000257 seconds of pure, elated affection, and then—

_Fuck._

Yuuri backtracks quickly, manhandling Victor until he’s at a respectable, _appropriate_ arm’s length away.

He chokes out, “You did really, really great!” and shoves his handkerchief back on Victor’s face. He pulls Victor to the kiss and cry to wait for the scores then proceeds to lecture him on what could be done better for next time.

“Your free leg was a little stiff, you should arch your back more for the opening pose, also, don’t think I didn’t notice you upping the jump difficulty mid-program—I told you to start easy, then ramp up the difficulty so you peak at the finals. Maybe we should lower the difficulty of your jumps for the free skate. Try doing one quad instead of three?”

“Yessir!” Victor says.

Victor doesn’t seem at all bothered with sudden lecture, listening attentively and chirping out affirmatives as they make their way to the kiss and cry. Yuuri however, inwardly burns with an unidentifiable pang of—something. He quickly dismisses it as extreme shame, and tries (and fails) to redirect Victor’s attention into something other than carefully brushing his fingertips over the spot where Yuuri had pressed his lips when he thinks Yuuri isn’t looking.

“ _Amazing! Victor Nikiforov scores his personal best on his short program—a 93.75!”_

On the outside, Yuuri smiles widely for the cameras, hugs Victor again and tells him he did a good job. But on the inside, Yuuri vaguely registers the announcement of Victor’s score and the following happy reaction from the crowd because he’s failed to stop his rising internal panic and is now currently on a downward spiral.

It was a slip-up. They had been so carefully, precariously floating in the comfortable vagueness of limbo, and afraid of bursting it with the unnecessary sharpness of reality.

But in that moment, Yuuri broke the fragility with a careless, but entirely earnest show of affection. His body had betrayed him, providing evidence of whatever his mind refused to acknowledge. It’s a step toward something more, and Yuuri can’t help but feel a little like it’s supposed to happen, and a lot like he fucked up.

If Victor noticed, he thankfully chooses not to say anything. He attaches himself to Yuuri’s side and doesn’t let go for the rest of the competition, beaming in quiet joy as they both watch the other skaters’ performances.

Yuuri feels absent, dazed, as the gravity of the situation sucks all conscious thought from his body. He doesn’t even blink when Chris comes on the ice at the end of his performance and Phichit and Victor are shrieking bloody murder at the hilarity of such an _explosive_ _ending_. It’s like all the consciousness Yuuri had, had filtered into Victor through osmosis, because now it’s Victor’s who’s calm and collected. It’s Victor who leads Yuuri, through the numbness and the haze of terrifying realization, around the venue, through another round of interviews, from the rink to the hotel, and eventually, back to their room.

Yuuri knows there’s a teeny tiny little press incident sometime after all the performances, but everything that happens after Victor’s short program is hazy. He remembers how he stands, stupidly, in front of a large crowd and how he feels his common sense gradually fade away when he announces he wants to stay with Victor. He tries to justify to himself later on that by “stay with Victor,” he meant “coach Victor,” but to be entirely honest, he’s not sure.

“I don’t know what to call it,” Yuuri says. He knows this is exact moment the last his sanity taps out, because he hears himself close with, “but I guess we can call it ‘love.’”

Yuuri’s not sure what happened next—if he decided to say more embarrassing things or if he did anything else, or if the crowd had a reaction—because his body performs a system-wide shut down. The next conscious thought he has is when he’s back in their room.

This wasn’t the plan at all. Not that Yuuri had a plan in the first place but if he did, this wasn’t it. It wasn’t like there was anything that could be done now. He’d done it. He had made his move and all he could do was wait.

Wait, for Victor’s turn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy flipflopmotherfuck this took A WHILE to make. My usual writing schedule was interrupted by a two-week long birthday thing and then before I knew it, BOOM writer's block. 
> 
> Much thanks to my editor, Kiara, for her thorough edits and wonderful edit comments and internet friendship :))
> 
> A few other things:  
> \- I will be taking a hiatus after chapter 6 because school is going to start soon and the workload will be INSANE :((  
> \- BUT!! I will make it up to you with a secret little something I'm working on with a bunch of awesome people so stay tuned (I swear it's fun) :D :D  
> \- If you rewatch the anime when you read this fic, you get a fun, canon vs au equivalent side-by-side comparison type thing :))
> 
> As always, thank you thank you for dropping by and I hope you have a great day!!!


	6. China's On!! The Cup of China Free Skate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO TAKE THIS LONG I AM SORRY  
> edit: literally 85% of this chapter has been done and ready for MONTHS, but the last scene is killing me for some reason (plus school started so there's that as well) so what's going to happen is I'm going to post this now, and then the last scene will be an epilogue thing to be posted...eventually

It’s almost 2 a.m.

It’s almost 2 a.m. and Yuuri hasn’t returned from when he left, five hours ago.

After Victor’s short program, Yuuri seemed unhinged—alternating between gentle and restless, under the fog of what was probably an intense internal crisis. One minute he’s talking in gentle tones and letting Victor lean into him. Then in the next he’s suddenly pulling away, not unkindly, and loudly exclaiming he has something to attend to, before disappearing into the night indefinitely.

This is why Victor wakes up in their hotel room alone and officially worried. He had waved good-bye to Yuuri, thinking he just needed a little time to himself—a little time to walk and work something out in his head—but Victor already completed a full sleep cycle and Yuuri is still very much not there. So, Victor’s rescue mission mode is now on high alert.

Maybe Yuuri slept over at Phichit’s or Chris’ and forgot to tell him? Or maybe he was blackout drunk in some gutter in the mysterious streets of Beijing. Oh god—maybe he was kidnapped. Sure, Victor has money for ransom, but he’s also positive that Yuuri’s ransom might run high, and he’s not sure he has _that_ kind money.

Worried and sleep-stupid, Victor fumbles for his phone under his pillow (there are about six texts from Yura, but that can wait) to send a half-coherent text to Phichit.

He types, _Okay, how high do you think it can go? I can go as up as 10mil but that’s if I sell everything and start growing my own food I cannot farm help me D: D: D:_

Despite it being practically two in the morning, Phichit replies right away.

 **Phichittychittybangbang <3 (1:42 am): ** _Firstly, if u stay w the Katsuki’s, u’ll always be fed. It’s the making ur own fancy clothes u’re gonna have to worry abt. And second, find ur center for me, buddy. What r u freaking out abt?_

Victor sighs. Right, he’s not going to be able to afford nice clothes anymore. He steels his resolve; he’s willing to sacrifice anything for Yuuri. Victor types: _Yuuri left at 9 and isn’t back yet. Idk where he is :( :( :( :(_

 **Phichittychittybangbang <3 (1:44 am): ** _HAHAHA OK I GET IT NOW—10MIL FOR THE POSSIBLE RANSOM LOL WAIT HOLY WOW HOW LOADED R U?_

 **Phichittychittybangbang <3 (1:44 am): ** _Btw, u should check hotel bar cloud nine(??). He’s probably there :D_   _GTG sleep but call me if he’s actually kidnapped. Goodniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!_

Victor replies, _Thanks Phichit goodnight!! <3 <3_

Cloud Nine is fancier than Victor anticipates, which, in hindsight, makes perfect sense for a hotel whose lobby is bedazzled in glittering crystal hangings. On another day, he might’ve felt self-conscious about being underdressed in his sweater and jeans, but he’s a man on a Mission™ so it’s a nonissue. The staff seem puzzled at this random, determined, silver-haired person storming in a few minutes to closing. They all seem to want to usher him back out, but Victor smiles so sweetly that he’s let on his merry way.

Victor walks past the red velvet chairs and mirrored walls to the main bar. It stands in its own little space, looking grand with its dripping crystal chandelier and solid granite countertop. As Phichit predicted, he finds Yuuri there. He’s sitting on one of the heavy velvet stools and staring, troubled, into his newly filled whiskey glass. As Victor walks over to Yuuri’s spot, Yuuri looks up from his glass. Victor offers him a smile.

“ _What are you doing here? You should go back to sleep,_ ” Yuuri says, his voice scratchy and low. He’s drunk and sleepless enough that it comes out in Japanese instead of English.

Victor gently pulls Yuuri’s sleeve and replies in halting, stiff Japanese, “ _Come to bed—and sleep—with me?_ ”

“ _WHAT?”_ Yuuri chokes on his whiskey. 

“ _I don’t know—Practice no! I no Japan!_ ” Victor whines in Japanese, helplessly rubbing Yuuri’s back until he recovers. Victor sighs and sits on the stool next to Yuuri. “English, Yuuri, please?” he adds in English. He reaches over to slowly tug the whiskey glass from Yuuri and motions for the bartender to take it away.

Yuuri’s hands fall to the countertop. He traces the golden patches in the granite with his thumbs. “ _Ah, sumimasen_.” Yuuri clears his throat and tries again. “Why are you here?”

“Came looking for you,” Victor says. He rests his hand next to Yuuri’s, tentatively lining the edges of their hands together and inching his pinky under Yuuri’s. The tip of his nail presses into the soft pad of Yuuri’s finger. “Why are you?”

Yuuri doesn’t reply, miserably looking down into the empty circle of his other hand, where the whiskey is supposed to be.

Minako had found him first, a few hours earlier. She walked in on him sitting in the same spot, staring into a different whiskey glass. He looked up at her and nodded a greeting, not even bothering to ask how she found him. For Minako, finding Yuuri was a skill that was just as easy to master as arabesques. By now, they’ve known each other a total of twenty-three years, which makes Minako fluent in Yuuri’s Anxious Habits. From ages seven to seventeen, it was hiding in the nearest available cabinet and crying his little heart out; and from ages eighteen to twenty-seven, it was disappearing into the nearest available place that served alcohol.

“ _I was hoping you wouldn’t find me this time_ ,” he had sighed, stroking a thumb along the rim of his glass.

Minako settled into the chair beside him and patted Yuuri’s head while he flagged down the bartender for her. The bartender, a pleasant-looking man in his forties, hurries to their side of the bar, looking relieved—like he was happy Yuuri now had someone to talk to, instead of staring a little too intently at the contents of his glass.

“Sake please _,_ ” Minako said to the bartender, in English. She turned to Yuuri and switched to Japanese, “ _You know I always find you. Also, if you really didn’t want to be found, you shouldn’t have stayed at the hotel._ ” She looked at him expectantly.

It’s usually at that point that Yuuri tells her what’s going on, but instead: “ _I’m not going to tell you why I’m here,”_ he said, sulking.

 _“Give me some credit,_ Mister Katsuki _,”_ she said teasingly. _“You should know by now that I already know why you’re here.”_

“ _You don’t know why I’m here,_ ” Yuuri replied quietly into his glass. He downed his drink and signaled the bartender for another one when he arrived with Minako’s order.

Minako rolled her eyes at him, “ _You’re here, panic-drinking because—”_ she held up three fingers, ticking them off as she enumerated “— _one: you’re hoping nobody, not even Victor noticed the tiny kiss you gave him when you hugged him; two: you think you caused more trouble for yourself with the things you said in the interview after the short program; and three: you’re scared about what it all means_.”

It wasn’t fair, how sometimes Minako saw right through him. Yuuri looked at her sullenly, determined not to give anything away. She looked back at him with a knowing expression, locking them in a strange game of emotional chicken until the bartender arrived with his drink. Yuuri caved, breaking away to throw the drink back immediately and slam it down on the table. He ordered another one.

Minako looked smug. “ _I know you, Katsuki Yuuri. I know you.”_

Yuuri hung his head and spun the drink in his hands, watching the amber slosh along the sides of the glass.

“ _Was it really that obvious_?” Yuuri lamented.

“ _The kiss wasn’t obvious to anyone else but me. And probably Phichit, if he caught it. But he was staring at his phone at the time so you’re safe. Takeshi was looking and he didn’t notice. Victor on the other hand, he’s a bit of a wild card. He acts like a huge ditz a lot of the time but you know he picks up on a lot of things._

_As for the interview, it didn’t come out as bad as you think it did. The way you said it, it sounded like you regarded him as a dear friend.”_

Yuuri sighed. “ _The kiss, the interview—it was all stupid. I don’t even know why I did it_.”

“ _Yes you do_ ,” Minako said. Her no-nonsense tone went straight through Yuuri’s heart in a way that tapped on the glass, threatened to make restless of things—things he’d really rather keep dormant.

Yuuri swung his gaze away from her, his grip tightening around his glass.

Her tone was gentler when she spoke next, stroking his bangs with her fingertips before running her palm down the back of his head and along the line of his nape, to pat him on the back. It was a soothing gesture, one that she had used to comfort him when he was a child. She hadn’t done that in years, not since he became old enough to comfort with a bottle of sake. He’s twenty-seven now, long past the age of hiding in cabinets, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t help.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” she said, cupping her hand on the back of his head and turning him to face her. “ _Yes, you do_ ,” she repeated gently.

Yuuri remained silent. Minako has always been able to read him—she sees when he’s not okay even if he says he is; she sees when he’s on a panicked, downward spiral even if he seems completely calm on the outside.

He did know. And it scared him. No matter how many times he’s tried to talk himself out of _this_ —this helpless, soft fondness that started months ago on the beach in Hasetsu.

But Yuuri was stubborn, and somehow, despite all the signs, he convinced himself that if it wasn’t said out loud, nothing could go wrong. If it’s kept quiet, no one gets hurt. There’s no need for another failure to add to his running tally. He’s made enough mistakes.

“ _Is it so bad that you like him back_?”

“ _‘Like him back’_?” Yuuri echoed, a last-ditch effort to Not Admit Anything.

“ _I swear to god, Katsuki_ ,” she groaned. “ _Are we really going to go through this again? Are you really not going to acknowledge that Victor likes you? Didn’t you already have this talk with Phichit when he visited us_?”

Yuuri lifted his hands in a placating manner. Denial had served him too well these last few months. He wasn’t stupid. It had been there, all the signs. He just didn’t feel capable of accepting them.

It was time to acknowledge the facts, or be subjected to a possible scolding from Minako. He’d seen Minako angry, fully, properly raging mad, only three times in his entire life, and he’d learned that Minako’s Great Rage had the power to trivialize even the worst of his fears. He had never been on the receiving end of it, and he didn’t intend to start now.

“ _I’ve…known for a while—I mean, I’ve suspected. But I didn’t want to see it as the truth_.”

_“Why not?”_

“ _I’ve hurt people before,”_ Yuuri ground out. “ _And I can’t put him through what I’ve put other people through. I can’t do that. Not to Victor.”_

“ _Good Buddha—Yuuri!”_ Minako threw her hands up, exasperated. _“You sound like you’ve deliberately broke your partner’s hearts, murdered their families, and chopped up their body parts and scattered it all over the country—”_

 _“—that’s weirdly specific,”_ Yuuri muttered.

Minako continued, unfazed, “ _I don’t fucking care what your anxiety says; you’re_ not _a terrible person, Katsuki Yuuri. And neither is Victor. Give yourself a chance at this._ ”

Yuuri just looked at her, unsure.

“ _Let yourself be loved, Yuuri,”_ she said. She drank the last of her sake and lifted herself off the barstool. She pulled him in for a hug, ever the ballerina with her impeccable posture, graceful arms warm around his shoulders. She whispered, _“And let yourself love him back._ ” She moved away and walked out of the bar, leaving Yuuri alone with his thoughts.

Yuuri sighs, a long labored exhale through the nose, and presses his lips together.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Victor adds softly, pressing the length of his forearm against Yuuri’s. His eyes flick up, uncertain, to look at Yuuri before he hooks his pinky around Yuuri’s. “Just—come back with me to the room, please. You really need to rest.”

Yuuri’s gaze swings to look at their entwined pinkies. He considers them for a long moment before he murmurs, “Okay.”

Yuuri nods at the bartender for the bill. The bartender, who has been casually hovering within earshot, bustles away while Victor watches Yuuri fumble with his wallet. Dexterity failing him, he gives up and shoves the wallet at Victor.

“Use the platinum one,” Yuuri says, pointing in the general direction of a black card. “No, no, no, no,” he says, when Victor starts tugging the platinum card from its sleeve. “The _platinum_ one.” Yuuri gestures again at the black card.

“This one?” Victor points at the black card. Yuuri nods unsteadily as the bartender slides the bill toward Victor.

“Yeeeaaaaah,” Yuuri says, grinning widely. “Platinum. _Kuro_.”

Victor slips the card into the bill jacket and slides it back to the bartender.

He smiles, taking amusement in Yuuri’s clear indication that he’s just past the threshold of drunkenness. “Yuuri, that one’s black. _Kuro_ is black, not platinum.”

Yuuri contemplatively frowns after the bill, which is currently with the bartender on the far end of the bar.

“ _This_ one is platinum,” Victor says, pointing at the platinum card.

Yuuri squints at it, doubtful.

“It’s platinum—like my hair,” Victor adds, trying not to laugh.

Yuuri swings his head up to look at Victor. He reaches out hesitantly to hold Victor’s chin with his fingertips and carefully tilt Victor’s face to the side. Yuuri squints at Victor’s ponytail. He makes a warbled, satisfied noise and nods to himself, and releases Victor. The bartender comes back with the card and the receipt.

“ _Xiè xiè,_ ” Victor says, taking the card and offering the bartender a tip. He turns to Yuuri. “Okay, let’s go?”

Yuuri waits for Victor to stand before he grabs Victor’s shoulder. He stands, winding an arm tightly around Victor for stability. “Okay, go,” he commands, with all the seriousness of a black ops mission leader.

Victor laughs and holds Yuuri by the waist. Together, they make their way out of the bar and into the elevator. The elevator climbs up and up and up until Yuuri realizes they’ve past the floor where their room is.

“Where…?”

“Roof deck. To sober you up,” Victor says, producing a bottle of water from his back pocket and handing it to Yuuri.

Victor leads Yuuri on a full lap around the roof deck before they settle in. It’s a small, pretty space. There’s a pathway that winds around the area, starting from the entryway, leading to a small koi pond, through a few trellises, and to a small area with lounge chairs. It’s after hours so the only sources of light are tiny lamps lining each side of the pathway, and the only sound is the distant noise of the city below. They sit next to each other on lounge chairs and gaze upward, searching for familiar stars in a foreign sky.

Victor pipes up, after a long moment of silence, “Yuuri?”

“Yes?”

“Have you had a relationship?”

“Yeah, a few,” Yuuri replies absently. “None really lasted. You know how it can be—with the skating. There was one though. I was twenty-three when it ended. We dated about two years. I thought this was going to be the one—the long-run type of relationship. And then he left me. Because of the skating.” Yuuri laughs and shakes his head. “That was a painful one.”

Victor nods. “No one else since?”

“No one else since. I’ve pretty much embraced the hermit life. Maybe I’ll be a monk after my skating career,” Yuuri says, laughing. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Just curious.” Victor says lightly. “We’ve talked about everything but relationships.”

“You were always so weird about asking. Plus, the first time you asked me about my relationships, we barely knew each other and we were in the middle of training.” Yuuri stretches, raising his arms up and twisting at the waist. “And Yurio was there. Judging us with his Yurio face.” He adds as an afterthought.

“So why’d you answer now?”

Yuuri shrugs. “Drunk enough.” He turns in his chair to look at Victor. “And, we know each other now. I trust you now.”

“You think you’re ready to date again?” Victor presses gently. His face turns to Yuuri with a hopeful look when he replies.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Yuuri says thoughtfully, facing the sky to trace constellations with his finger. “It’s not that I’m completely opposed. I’ve just—been busy.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing,” Victor says nonchalantly. “I’m thinking of setting you up with little miss flirty hotpot, Waverly Jong.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Yuuri deadpans. “Maybe you can be flower boy at the wedding and godfather to our first born. I’ll name him after you: Hotpot Victor Jr.”

Victor shrieks indignantly, and Yuuri laughs so hard that he rolls right off his lounge chair.

“You?” Yuuri asks after a while. “If I remember right, you said you’ve dated…eight people?”

“None of them really lasted long either.” Victor laughs, waving the question away with his hand.

“Because of the skating?”

“That’s part of the reason,” Victor tells him. “I was always, sort of—” he laughs shyly, “—hoping I’d get a chance with someone.” He looks at the sky as he says this.

“Someone?” Yuuri asks, amused. He looks curiously at Victor.

“Yep.” Is all Victor says, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the sky. His face seems to flush, but in the dim light, Yuuri isn’t sure.

The silence between them stretches for a moment before Victor speaks again, so quietly that Yuuri has to strain to hear him.

“Seriously though, do you think…you’d want one again?”

“A relationship?”

Victor faces Yuuri, serious now, all traces of joking gone. “Yeah.”

After a long while of thinking, Yuuri tells him. “Right now I can’t really give a straight yes or no but it’s…” Yuuri meets Victor’s eyes and holds his gaze. “It’s a possibility I’ve considered.”

And that was that.

They stay there for a while longer. Victor uses the cold breeze as an excuse to squeeze in next to Yuuri in his lounge chair. And Yuuri teaches Victor the names of the constellations, taking Victor’s wrist to help him trace the lines between the stars. They head back to the room when the faintest hint of sunrise starts to peak beyond the horizon and Yuuri’s properly sober.

As soon as they arrive, Victor draws the drapes to shut out threat of the morning sun. He switches on the lamp by his bedside and grabs his sleeping clothes.

“Time for a nap!” He declares, before marching into the bathroom to wash up.

“Victor, did you even set an alarm?” Yuuri asks

Victor’s only response is the sound of running water.

“Victor?” Yuuri says, peeking into the bathroom. “The alarm?”

“Feh,” Victor replies, in between splashes of water as he washes his face. He squints at Yuuri through the foam of facial wash. “Feeeeeh,” he repeats. He playfully waves Yuuri away by flapping his hands—a gesture that makes Yuuri’s heart tighten when he realizes Victor had picked that up from his father.

“Why is it that you speak terrible Japanese, but you act like an old Japanese man?” Yuuri manages to grumble, heading the bathroom while Victor wiggles under the covers—in his own bed, this time.

When he exits the bathroom, he finds Victor sitting up in his bed, looking pensive with his fingers touching his temple. He’s about to ask if Victor’s okay when Victor suddenly squares his shoulders before throwing off the covers to walk up to Yuuri. He pauses a mere foot away.

“What is it?” Yuuri asks, curiously looking at Victor.

Victor brushes the tips of his fingers over his temple again, peering up at Yuuri with a searching gaze. He leans closer, eyes flicking down to Yuuri’s cheekbone before meeting his eyes again.

For a moment, there’s nothing; Yuuri holds himself incredibly still and Victor just looks into his eyes.

Then, Victor whispers, “Goodnight, Yuuri.” into the small gap between them.

He tiptoes and presses a deliberate kiss on Yuuri’s cheek.

Before Yuuri has a chance to react, Victor is back in his bed and switching off the lamp.

“Goodnight, Victor,” Yuuri whispers into the dark of the room.

He lifts his hand to touch his cheek, where he can still feel the warmth from Victor’s mouth.

 

* * *

 

Midmorning finds Yuuri and Victor at different stages of panic.

The stage at which Victor is currently in is simple enough to deduce: his usual nonstop chatter and _un_ usual early morning cheerfulness easily puts him deep in the denial stage. Since they’ve woken up, he has been zipping around the room, rambling on how excited he is for the free skate and how he can’t wait for Yuuri to see, and oh Yuuri— _Yuuri_ —aren’t you excited?!

Yuuri, who had slowly been working through the stages for the last two days, finally reached the peak; the full force of a meltdown crashing down on him as soon as his head hit the pillow. He had spent what was left of the night steeped in a terrible fever dream where he, for reasons unknown to man, was his fifteen-year old self and Yurio was his coach.

Dream-Yurio was two metres tall, broad-shouldered, and had reduced him into a puddle of tears by yelling at him for dishonoring the entirety of Japan every time he couldn’t land a quintuple axel. Each time dream-Yuuri failed the jump, he’d get yelled at, then he’d cry, and then the dream would loop back to start where dream-Yurio towered over him and demanded he start practice.

The night, needless to say, was an unpleasantly overwhelming one for Yuuri. 

He woke up unnerved, exhausted, and suppressing the urge to pick a fight with Yurio, who is currently all the way in Russia, for making him cry. The only positive to his relative sleep deprivation is it allowed him to transcend his panic cycle and into a state of apathy. He’s more or less okay now, generally speaking. It’s a familiar headspace; a hollow peace where Yuuri finds himself detached from feeling anything too deeply, yet highly functional.

So Yuuri does what he should: he focuses on Victor—ready to sweep in with reassurances when Victor inevitably reaches _his_ peak.

Over time Yuuri has learned that there are three main stages of panic: anxiety, breaking point, and resolution—all exhibited in a varying number of micro stages, depending on the person experiencing the panic.

Before the resolution stage, Yuuri himself usually exhibits six micro stages: extreme confusion, denial part one (refusing to acknowledge the problem), denial part two (trying to pass off the problem as something else), worry, fear, and drunk. Granted, Yuuri’s drunk stage is self-imposed and not at all a natural part of the process. But Phichit says that this is his coping mechanism, and Yuuri always ends up drinking one way or another, so they had just call it the “drunk stage” and leave it at that.

And Victor, Yuuri learns as he patiently watches him cycle through the micro stages, seems to have three.

Victor’s first stage is a subconscious, subtle version of denial. The massive presence of the competition hasn’t really sunk in—not yet anyway—despite having just competed in the short program.

The morning had started with one thing out of the ordinary: Victor had done it again. The uncertain approach, the soft look in his eyes, followed by him darting close to quickly press a kiss on Yuuri’s cheek.

Yuuri only had enough time to blurt out, “Good morning!” before Victor vanished into the bathroom to get ready.

The rest of the morning was pretty much routine. They had breakfast at the hotel café, prepared their things for the competition, and made a Skype call to the family.

Yuuri sat next to Victor this time, joining him as they coo at Makkachin, catch up briefly with Mari-nee-chan, and listen to encouragements from Yuuri’s parents (with Victor turning gleeful under the attention and calling them “Okaasan” and “Otou-san” throughout the entire call).

Victor then proceeds to transition into the beginning of his breaking point. It happens during lunch.

Having just left the salad section of the buffet, Yuuri and Phichit are calculating the macros of the assortment of vegetables on Phichit’s plate when Yuuri catches the tail end of Chris’ conversation with Victor.

“Ah, you see,” Chris says to Victor, as Yuuri and Phichit join them to scan the selection of American viands. “ _That_ is why you are the Person of Interest now.”

Victor laughs and shakes his head. “That just means I’m Hot and Trending!” He helps himself to a little roast beef. After a little approving nod from Yuuri, he helps himself to gravy and mashed potatoes too.

“What’s happening? Why is he the person of what?” Phichit looks curiously at Victor’s plate. His hands are full with his plate of greens so he nudges Yuuri with his elbow until Yuuri gives him a few slices of roast beef.

“A person of interest,” Chris clarifies. He pokes at a pile of marbled potatoes before rolling a few onto his plate. “My darling Victor has committed a very grave sin! He’s known as the man who stole the Legend from the world. It’s quite the scandal among people in the skating circuit,” Chris says with a wink.

“Ah yes,” Victor says, playfully wiggling his eyebrows. “My eros took Yuuri from the world! Tell the world it is I, the man of sin!”

“Because that’s just what this coach-apprentice dynamic needs. More scandals. Don’t forget to tell them that Yuri Plisetsky is actually our love child,” Yuuri deadpans. “Chris, why must you spread lies?” He steals a few potatoes from Chris’ plate for revenge, and grins when Chris protests.

“I am _offended_!” says Chris, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead and mock-frowning in a way that shows how just not offended he is. “Is this what you think of me, sir Yuuri?” He lets out an over-the-top huff and pretends to snub Yuuri, strutting away to the Asian cuisine.

“Chris! Such dramatics!” Phichit laughs.

“Chris!” Victor calls out, reaching dramatically toward Chris, who is actually about ten feet away. “Come back to me!”

Phichit wheezes out, “Really guys? Right in front of my salad?!” He almost drops his plate because of how hard he’s laughing.

“Oh god, why do I even bother with you three,” Yuuri grumbles, but the small smile on his face is genuine and fond.

Victor grins at him and Phichit. “I’ll catch up with you at the table!” he chirps before chasing after Chris.

“Did you notice?” Yuuri says quietly to Phichit, when they’re a good distance away. He watches Victor talking with the other skaters at their table.

To everyone else, he seems normal—all smiles and playful flirting and signature Nikiforov charm. But Yuuri sees how he’s straining behind his smiles, and how the charm has no sincerity behind it.

“Yeah,” Phichit says. “He hasn’t come within three feet of you since you guys arrived.”

Yuri hadn’t noticed the rhythm they had built between them: Victor touching him, him touching Victor—never apart from each other for more than a few hours. A quiet, unconscious push and pull, like the water rushing up to the sand in gentle, steady sways. It only came to his attention when it stopped, like the tide pulling back from the shore before a big storm; starting with him drawing back unexpectedly from a light touch on the back, and then again when Yuuri held his shoulder.

Yuuri does what he can—he gives Victor a little space, staying quiet while they head to the stadium, and after a reasonable amount of time, he tries talking to Victor about it.

Victor keeps brushing him off with a joke, or purposely distracting him with a strategically placed touch—more specifically, a bold and lingering touch to the hip while they’re in an elevator full of media interns. Yuuri's lucky there were no witnesses, but it was so distracting that it renders Yuuri useless, long enough for Victor to yank them into the pre-competition interviews before Yuuri can talk to him again.

When they’re finally alone, walking down the hall to the holding room, Yuuri tries again.

“You seem different today,” he says lightly. He moves to stand next to Victor, studying his expression.

Victor pauses, and then tosses his hair over his shoulder. “It’s probably because I used the face mask this morning! It said it’d give me a youthful glow. Am I youthful? Is that it? Am I glowing?” Victor grins and playfully bats his lashes.

“Victor,” Yuuri says gently.

“Yes, Yuuri?” Victor replies, the artificially cheerful lilt in his voice is a stark contrast to the worry in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks, careful as he tries getting Victor to talk to him.

“I’m perfect!” Victor skips a few feet ahead, presumably to avoid eye contact.

 “Victor,” Yuuri jogs to keep up with him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”

“Victor, just talk to me.”

“I _am_ talking to you, Yuuri. Everything’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine!”

“Hey,” Yuuri says lowly, taking Victor by the hand to pull him to a stop. “Come here.” He tugs at Victor’s arms to wind them around his waist to prepare for a hug.

Normally, something like this would make Victor’s eyes brighten, flush pink, and squeak. But this time, Victor smiles at Yuuri, eyes dull, and pulls away. “What’s this for? Come on now, we’re going to be late!”

“Victor,” Yuuri says evenly. “You should know by now that I know when something’s wrong. Please, just talk to me.”

Victor looks at the floor, and soaks in the briefest moment of guilty silence before he tosses his head up. “There’s nothing to talk about, Yuuri, I’m fine.” He flashes Yuuri a grin that doesn’t fool him.

Yuuri sighs. “I don’t understand why you’re so fucking stubborn all the time.”

Before Victor can say anything else, a rushing crowd interrupts them. The live broadcast is minutes away from starting and everyone’s in a hurry to catch the opening. Victor, evidently pleased he was saved from continuing their conversation, heads into the holding room without another word.

Where Yuuri’s panic had topped itself off and resolved into highly functional apathy—the type of mindset purely motivated by the thought, “ah, fuck it”—Victor’s had manifested as something else altogether.

It was reminiscent of when Victor started taking his training too seriously—back when Yurio had just left Hasetsu, leaving Victor too consumed with the pressure of chasing perfection. When his passion had him plunging headfirst into destructive obsession.

They’re standing by one of the screens in the room, watching the commentators give introductions on the skaters, when Victor, with barely contained agitation in his face, suddenly excuses himself to stretch outside. Yuuri decides that’s enough, following quickly after Victor to catch him by the wrist.

Victor tugs against the grip on his wrist, but Yuuri holds him firmly.

“I don’t have time to talk, Yuuri. I have to start stretching.” Victor turns worried eyes behind them, toward the holding room.

“Okay, we’ll stretch,” Yuuri assures. “Come on, let’s go.”

He leads Victor away from the holding room to the lobby, then to another hallway. But everywhere else is too loud, too populated with people. In the end, Yuuri ends up pulling Victor into the basement parking lot, where the people are scarce and the sounds are more muted. Maybe it’ll help Victor calm down.

Yuuri switches his grip to Victor’s hand, weaving his fingers between the spaces and squeezing tight, but Victor pulls away. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his team Russia jacket.

“Yuuri, what are the scores? I need to know,” Victor says, tensely staring up at the parking lot ceiling, roughly at where the rink should be.

“Don’t think about that now,” Yuuri says, putting the earphones in his ear. “Start your warm-up.” He turns up the volume on Victor’s music.

Victor starts on his stretches while Yuuri leans against one of the parked cars to watch him.

The sounds are muffled, but he can make out the announcers saying, “ _In sixth place after the short program is our first skater of the night, Georgi Popovich, age twenty-seven, representing Russia. He’ll be skating to Tales of a Sleeping Prince.”_

There’s a few seconds of silence before the music starts.

_“He’s coming up on his first jump now, the quadruple salchow, one of his favourite moves and—he did it! Next up: his step sequence!”_

Yuuri can hear the distant sounds of the crowd cheering for Georgi. It seems he’s performing well tonight. Yuuri looks over at Victor, who has just finished his first warm-up set. He doesn’t look any less agitated. Yuuri wonders if he can hear the crowd’s reactions to Georgi’s routine. He pulls out Victor’s phone and increases the volume of his music, just in case.

 _“He nailed the jump combination!”_ Yuuri hears the commentator say, followed by another round of applause from the audience. Several more seconds of the bass of Georgi’s music booms through the ceiling, and then finally, _“He landed his final jump!”_

The competition noises reach a lull as they move through the end of Georgi’s segment and prepare for the next skater. Yuuri hears an announcement for Chris, and then the music starts.

Chris is performing now, and Yuuri has no idea what he did, but the crowd suddenly goes _wild_ with a thunderous applause so loud that it echoes through the parking lot.

Of course, this is when the speakers blare: _“All of his jumps are successful! With this free skate program, twenty-five year old Christophe Giacometti is giving everyone a run for their money. What an incredible performance!”_

Victor looks up from marking his routine and pulls the earphones from his ears. He stares, face going pale, up at the ceiling.

“Don’t listen!” Yuuri says, grabbing Victor by the shoulders to refocus his attention.

Yuuri has to do something, _now._

“What do you want me to do, Victor?” Yuuri asks, desperate. “You won’t talk to me, and you can’t seem to calm down! You can’t go into your performance like this.” In the panic, his logic falls away. Like a dimwitted fool he says, “Should I just—kiss you or something?” and Yuuri recognizes his mistake the instant the words are out of his mouth.

Victor stares at him. The tense silence stretches between them and then, “Kiss me?” Victor echoes faintly, face frozen in shock.

“Is that what all this was?” Victor asks, hurt. His face visibly falls and Yuuri can _see_ exactly when Victor’s heart breaks. Tears run down his cheeks, streaking the foundation on his face. His breath hitches as he speaks through a sob. “All the flirting and the touching was just a strategy to calm me down? To keep me focused on training? Do you even know how much this—how I fee—?”

Yuuri doesn’t even wait for Victor to finish, arms reaching to crush him to his chest. They haven’t even begun to acknowledge this thing between them and already Yuuri’s ruined it. He feels it, the roll of Victor’s emotions, a painful ache in his chest, and never has he felt so remorseful.

He scrambles for the words in pure panic. “Victor, I—I just want to be there for you.”

Victor breaks the hug with a push. “I KNOW THAT,” Victor shouts, eyes sharp as he glares at Yuuri.

Yuuri freezes, unsure what to do. It’s the first time Victor has ever raised his voice.

Victor continues, angrily, “Just be there for me the way YOU want to! Don’t do things out of some weird obligation to me!” And just like that, his anger tapers off. Then he adds, softly, “You don’t have to do anything—just stay close to me.” He steps forward to thump his face into Yuuri’s chest.

“Okay, okay.” Yuuri’s arms come around Victor. He soothes him with gentle strokes on his back. “I’m sorry, Victor. I’m _so_ sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“You suck,” Victor replies miserably into Yuuri’s chest, voice muffled by his shirt.

“I know,” Yuuri whispers, holding Victor tight until his breathing evens out.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri’s not sure how Victor pulled it off, but he did: Victor has successfully kept him in the dark on his free skate. Measures were taken to ensure Yuuri’s total ignorance. Aside from the music title being changed, Yuuri was also efficiently redirected during public practice, and prevented from looking at anything that might have details on the competition.

Despite it all, Yuuri does get word of the music’s title—during an unsupervised walk in the stadium lobby, where a few too-eager, too-loud media interns are gossiping about their assignments for the free skate coverage. He only catches one word and nothing else: _Perderti_.

 _Perderti_ seems familiar, but Yuuri can’t place why he knows it. There’s no sense in puzzling it out now, especially since what he should be doing is helping Victor prepare.

“Let me see,” Yuuri says. He tilts Victor’s face toward the light, inspecting the red, blotchy skin around his eyes.

After Victor’s post-crying hiccupping fades, Yuuri walks him back upstairs, down an unused corridor and into an empty restroom, taking care to avoid any stray media folk along the way.

Victor sits on the edge of the counter. He rummages through the make up pouch for concealer. He pulls out a few tubes, checking their colours on the back of his hand. “This one?” He squints at one of the tubes in the soft light of the bathroom before holding it up to Yuuri’s face.

“Yeah.” Yuuri steps up to the counter. Victor’s knees rest against either side of his hips. “Hold still,” he murmurs. He holds his hand out for the concealer.

Victor carefully unscrews the tube and gives it to Yuuri. He instinctively follows the concealer wand when Yuuri moves it to apply the product on his face.

“Victor, hold still.” Yuuri redirects Victor’s face toward the light. “I can’t do this if you keep moving.”

“Maybe if you didn’t make me cry, we wouldn’t have this problem,” Victor grumbles. He braces on hand on the counter and steadies himself.

Yuuri drops his eyes, his face changing so subtly that Victor only catches it because they’re so close together.

It’s enough to tug at Victor’s heart and make him apologise. He wraps his fingers around Yuuri’s wrist, stroking a thumb over Yuuri’s pulse. “Sorry,” he mumbles, trying to catch Yuuri’s eyes. “Do…do you know how to put on make up? I don’t want to look weird on camera.”

Yuuri’s lips thin out in a wry smile. He dabs under Victor’s left eye with the wand, and then comes back to blend it in with his finger. “I spent the last seven years crying right before competitions. I know how to do this.”

He dots a little product around Victor’s other eye, carefully patting it in with his finger. He squints at Victor, assessing how the shade fares against the rest of the make up on his face. “There,” he says, satisfied. He tosses the make up bag into their duffel bag. He hoists it onto his shoulder. “Okay, let me see how it works with the whole thing,” Yuuri says, tugging Victor off the counter and out to the corridor.

Victor unzips his team Russia jacket and hands it to Yuuri.

Aside from the jumps Yuuri had helped plan for Victor’s free skate, the costume is the only other detail Yuuri knows about Victor’s program. As a base, Victor wears slightly shimmery black trousers and an open-collared white shirt, with black sleeves that hook over his thumbs. The main focus of his costume is the tailcoat he wears over the white top. It’s a sheer, white-to-pink ombre tailcoat with gold accents: two aiguillettes draped on the left shoulder, and three frogging details fastened together at the midsection.

Yuuri brushes Victor’s bangs away from his eye, and smoothes his sleek ponytail. He steps back to take in the whole look: the elegant design of the costume, the strong lines in Victor’s posture, the gentle cut of his collarbones peeking out of his shirt.

“You look—” Yuuri swallows. He doesn’t say beautiful. “—regal,” he finishes, nodding. “Time to go.”

Rinkside, the energy is jarringly different from the stale quiet of the hallways. It’s alive and wonderfully overwhelming, and it makes Yuuri feel the familiar thrumming in his veins—the decades-long instinctive pull toward the ice. He braces his forearms hard on the boards as he watches Victor make a few reacquainting laps around the rink.

Victor scrapes to a halt in front of him. He pets the Makkachin tissue holder next to Yuuri’s elbow before he grabs a few sheets for his nose.

“Mind your jumps,” Yuuri reminds him softly. He holds his hand out for the tissues.

Victor looks at him with a smile that’s too sharp and haughtily drops the tissues a few inches left of Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri scrambles to catch it, leaning ungracefully over the boards to swipe it before it hits the ice. On his way back up, Victor jabs his finger, none-too-gently, at the spot between Yuuri’s eyebrows.

On camera, it looks like Victor is affectionately poking at his coach, but there’s a telltale glint in his eye, only visible to Yuuri, that says: _fucking make me_.

Yuuri laughs good-naturedly for the cameras, but Victor catches his eye and Yuuri knows the messaged comes across that he has _so many_ angry words for Victor later. Later, in the privacy of their room, where Yuuri can yell at him and try to smother him under his pillow mountain.

Yuuri’s been kept in the dark for so long about this performance, he doesn’t know how to feel about it. And with the crowd he waits, looking on curiously while Victor takes center ice.

Victor stands in the middle of the rink: legs crossed at the ankle, head slightly bowed, arms held out by his sides. Yuuri’s not sure how it happens, but there is something in the way Victor bows his head that makes everything suddenly fall into place. Before the announcers say the title of the song—before the music plays—Yuuri _knows_ which song Victor picked.

The spotlight shines on Victor, and he looks up, straight at Yuuri and Yuuri knows—

It’s Stammi Vicino.

“ _The next skater is Victor Nikiforov from Russia. He finished the short program in third place. He will be skating to Paura di Perderti.”_

The music starts and there it is—the unmistakable swell of the wind instruments, and the gentle lead-in of the rich baritone. It would have been almost impossible for Yuuri not to recognize this. He had produced it himself; years hunched over his laptop—listening to classics for inspiration, researching the right theme, the right sound, contacting the right people to bring his vision to life. Carefully crafting the perfect masterpiece he was probably never going to be able to perform.

It had been ready for a few seasons, but there was never a good time to share it with the world. He had planned to keep his lonely goodbye to love a secret, tucked away into muscle memory.

And then, the fateful viral video. And then, the video response.

And then, Victor. Here and now.

His first jump is right at the start; the only quad Yuuri told him to keep out of the three in his list.

“ _Victor Nikiforov plans to do three quads of two different types. In this routine, we’re told he and his coach, Yuuri Katsuki, have decided he’ll be doing one quad, so that he peaks at the Grand Prix Final. The first jump is a quadruple loop.”_

Victor moves into position, takes off from the ice, perfect form all the way until he lands.

“ _His quad was a success! Up next is the step sequence. This piece was choreographed by Nikiforov himself, inspired by a performance by Katsuki earlier in the year.”_

Yuuri watches Victor move across the ice, thinking how it had felt to watch him on the little screen of Minako’s phone all those months ago.

It had called out to him back then. It was open, it was tender—a shy introduction, a soft _hello_ between strangers.

“ _Flying sit spin…and a triple—no—a quad Sal! Nice form! Is he changing his jump components?”_

It calls out to him now; it takes Yuuri back to a moment that feels like a lifetime ago. The cold of an early morning, a warm arm slung across his waist, pulling him close and asking him to stay, asking him to not leave for the rink.

In that moment, Yuuri shook his head sadly, eased out of the embrace, and kissed him goodbye. He had chosen training over everyone and everything too many times, Yuuri thinks in retrospect, because after that morning, he was never again asked to stay.

In this moment, Yuuri watches Victor dance across the ice, meaning woven into every movement. The crowd, the noise, the stadium—it all falls away. Everything but Victor on the ice, expressing an understanding lost in any spoken language.

 _Stay_ , Victor seemed to say in the reach of his arms, the sway of his body. _Stay with me a while longer._

With his heart growing three sizes in his chest, Yuuri thinks, _Yes._

“ _Next is a triple loop. Nikiforov gears up for the jump and—oh! He changed the triple loop to a quadruple flip! Nikiforov has shocked us all by throwing in his coach’s signature jump, a jump he has never before performed!”_

And just like that, Yuuri does not crave the solitude he had always thought he wanted, because there it was, clear as day: Victor’s love for him.

Stammi Vicino—stand by me.

Paura di Perderti—afraid of losing you.

When Yuuri rushes to meet Victor at the mouth of the rink, he has about a million thoughts racing, mixing in with the thundering applause of the crowd and his heart pounding in his chest. One thought cuts through the din—an echo of Minako-sensei’s words: _let yourself love him back_.

Victor speeds toward him, shouting, “Yuuri! Did you see that? I did great, right?!”

Yuuri, beaming with pride, throws his arms wide open. Victor leaps into them without hesitation.

There’s a flash of anticipation, like the dropped hush after a lightning strike, a split-second in the air when everything stills. Yuuri looks at Victor, bright-eyed and grinning wildly, and he feels so unbelievably happy it makes him think, _oh, I want to kiss him._ And he knows if he just tilted his head, he could. Victor’s eyes widen when he seems to come to the same conclusion.

But it’s too late when Yuuri decides he wants to, because they’ve fallen backward from the boards and hit the floor. His arms tighten around Victor, cold and sweaty from his performance, his weight a familiar comfort.

“That was beautiful,” Yuuri says, as the crowd screams. He murmurs, “And you—” he meets Victor’s eyes “—you were amazing.” The people around them surge forward with their cameras, capturing their embrace for the world to see.

Victor rises to an elbow and looks down at Yuuri, his gaze soft and so, so fond. “Did you like it?”

“I did.” Yuuri smiles warmly, his hand comes up to brush Victor on the cheek, only to busy itself instead with untangling the braided spangles on Victor’s shoulder when he remembers their audience. “Now help me up before the media turns this into a sex scandal,” he says. He’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

Victor laughs, pushing himself off Yuuri. He dusts himself off and yanks Yuuri up.

Victor takes gold, as expected, especially after his stellar free skate performance. Phichit and Chris flank him on either side, taking silver and bronze, respectively.

Everyone cheers, as Victor stands proud, waving at the world with a gold medal gleaming on his chest.

 

* * *

 

It should probably come as no surprise that after dodging the manic attention of the press, the fans, and their peers—all hell bent on knowing “what that tackle hug means”—Yuuri and Victor make it to the safety of their room and promptly _do not talk about it._

Victor, true to his nature, talks around the proverbial elephant in the room and tries to be as nonchalant as possible. He casually holds on to Yuuri while they sneak away from everyone, he casually talks to Yuuri about the other adjustments he should make to his program for the next event, and he casually tries to prepare for the post-Cup of China banquet.

He’s so busy being _casual_ , he gets stuck in his free skate costume when he tries pulling the top over his head instead of down his shoulders. The gold aiguillettes on the shoulder tangle in his ponytail, and with one misguided twist, he effectively traps his arms above his head like a shiny, pink, mishandled straightjacket.

He turns toward the general direction of Yuuri, who is also preparing for the banquet and probably trying not to laugh out loud, and makes pathetic, mournful noises until Yuuri comes over to help him.

Yuuri pulls Victor’s hair free from the costume and helps him pull it down. The fabric eases from Victor’s shoulders, revealing a small smattering of freckles just below his nape. Victor wiggles his arms out of the sleeves and Yuuri watches the muscles of his back flex, all the while thinking how Victor’s freckles remind him of the Pleiades constellation.

Without a second thought, Yuuri leans close and drops a kiss on the leftmost freckle, on the spot where the Atlas star would be.

Victor freezes. He whips around to face Yuuri, eyes wide. “Did you just…?” He steps back, reopening the space between them. He stares at Yuuri.

Yuuri can see the tips of his ears starting to burn pink. “Did I…?” Yuuri asks innocently. His lips quirk up at the corners.

“You—I mean—but I thought the free skate—” Victor cuts himself off and the thought dies in his head when Yuuri steps toward him.

“The free skate?” Yuuri says gently, still moving forward, the space between them getting smaller and smaller.

“The free skate,” Victor repeats helplessly. The costume dangles uselessly at his waist.

The free skate, they both knew, was a question. A question that had gone unanswered until now.

Yuuri presses closer. Their legs bump together. “Is this okay?”

Victor’s heart seems to be caught in his throat so he nods, and Yuuri’s arm comes around his waist to keep them from losing balance. They’re so close that Yuuri can feel the steady rise of Victor’s ribs every time he takes a breath. He wonders if Victor can feel how hard his heart is beating in his chest.

Yuuri reaches between them and trails his fingertips from Victor’s chin, along the sharp line of his jaw. He cradles the side of his face, fingers disappearing into the strands of silver hair.

“Is this okay?” he asks again quietly, looking at Victor’s mouth.

Victor holds himself very still, only daring to take shallow breaths through parted lips, like he’s afraid if he moves, this dream slips into waking and Yuuri will snap out of it and step away.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, quieter still, his thumb brushing across Victor’s lower lip. He meets Victor’s eyes.

An unspoken truth passes between them.  And then, Victor tilts upward to press their mouths together.

He pulls away, quickly. The backs of his knees bump against the edge of the bed. A blush is high on his cheeks, an apology ready in his throat.

“I—” he starts, but Yuuri’s hand is firm on his nape when he pulls Victor in to kiss him again, and again, and again. Victor groans and presses himself along the line of Yuuri’s body and kisses him back, kisses him deeper.

Victor clutches Yuuri’s shirt and tries to pull him closer. They lose balance and fall backward, onto the bed. Victor arches up into the kiss, hips pressing against Yuuri’s, when—

“Yuuri! Victor!” Phichit yells as he bursts through the door. He tucks Minako’s keycard into his pocket before checking is hair in the mirror and straightening his tie. “Aren’t you done yet? The banquet starts in fifteen!”

By some miracle, Yuuri’s standing a respectable distance away and fixing his shirt—looking nothing at all like he had just been kissing Victor on the bed.

In a disinterested manner, Yuuri plucks at the buttons of his shirt. “Victor had a little trouble with his costume. It’s pretty complicated to remove. We’re almost done though,” he tells Phichit.

Before Phichit can swing his head and notice Victor, who is mildly rumpled and still shirtless and on the bed, Victor jumps up and latches onto Yuuri, at his side in a flash. His arms clamp around Yuuri’s waist and he buries his face in Yuuri’s chest.

“Oh, what’s the matter?” Phichit says, concerned.

“Ah?” Yuuri says, trying to step away to see what’s wrong but Victor won’t detach.

Instead, he tightens his arms urgently. He subtly presses up against the top of Yuuri’s left thigh and Yuuri immediately understands what’s happening; why he won’t—why he _can’t_ move away with Phichit still in the room.

“It’s—” Yuuri clears his throat. Oh gods, how is this happening right now? He fights through the temptation to burst into hysterical laughter as his brain scrambles to get Phichit out of there without suspecting anything. “It’s been an emotional day for both of us,” he says with a convincingly solemn face. “You go ahead. We’ll catch up with you in a bit.” He’s inwardly preening at how he’s managing to keep it together.

Phichit nods his understanding and offers a few kind words to Victor, who just turns his head to meekly smile at Phichit before he goes. Victor doesn’t move _at all_ throughout this entire exchange, not until the door clicks shut.

Yuuri pulls away, laughing. “Oh my god, you pervert,” he says with a teasing grin.

Victor dives into the bed shrieking in unintelligible Russian. Yuuri’s not fluent enough to dissect the rapid-fire words, but he gets the gist. Victor grabs one of the pillows to smash it into his face. He passively wonders what will kill him first: death by suffocation or death by embarrassment.

Yuuri tugs the pillow away to dart in with a kiss. It’s unhurried and sweet enough that it reassures Victor. It makes him feel safe and wanted, but does nothing to ease his mortification.

Victor breaks away. “Yuuri.” He pouts, and then tries to press out the red on his cheeks with his hands. “Stop that,” he tells Yuuri, who’s nosing at the skin peeking out from in-between Victor’s hands for another kiss. “It’s not cute and I hate you.”

“You hate me now?” Yuuri chuckles. He chases after Victor’s mouth while he talks, trying to steal a kiss. “But what about the free skate? It had such a sweet message!”

“It only happened because you kissed me,” Victor grumbles, struggling to move his face as far away as possible. He then pulls up a frown so grumpy, Yuuri’s reminded briefly of Yurio.

“You kissed me first,” Yuuri points out. He misses Victor’s lips when Victor jerks his head away to pout some more.

“You kissed me back!” Victor glares at Yuuri in a way that would’ve been believable, if his arms weren’t so lovingly looped around Yuuri’s waist.

Yuuri perches on his elbow to look at Victor, his gaze soft and fond. “Yeah, I did.” He stills Victor’s face with a gentle hand.

Something in Victor’s face changes, and he gazes at Yuuri in open wonder. He finally understands what Yuuri means. Victor had asked a question through his skating, and Yuuri had answered with a kiss. His face softens and he smiles. “You did.”

Victor finally lets Yuuri kiss him again.

He lets this go on for three minutes, and he doesn’t resist when Yuuri pulls him up so they could prepare to leave for the banquet.

Yuuri irons out the wrinkles in his dress shirt and Victor puts his hair down to hide a suspicious red mark near his nape.

 

* * *

 

“Again, Yuuri,” Victor urges, pink-cheeked and breathless. His hands come to rest on Yuuri’s shoulders. Most of his hair has come loose from his ponytail from his excitement, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Please, Yuuri, do it again.”

Yuuri cocks an amused eyebrow at him and pushes Victor’s bangs out of his face. “I’m not sure you can handle more. You might pass out.” His hand, on its place on Victor’s knee, squeezes gently.

“Just once more, Yuuri. _Please_.”

“Okay, okay,” Yuuri concedes. “One more.”

Victor shuffles in closer. His eyes never leave Yuuri’s mouth and he’s quiet, waiting patiently.

Yuuri sucks in a breath before he starts, “Sheremetyevo, Sheremetyevo, Sheremetyevo, Sheremenemo, Sherememeshit—Shermen—ah, god damn—”

Victor dissolves into peals of laughter, clutching his sides as he collapses sideways, onto Phichit, who is equally hysterical, and the two sink down into their side of the booth. Yuuri doesn’t even bother to pretend to be offended, and he bursts out laughing as well.

Aside from the few, mildly alarmed looks thrown at their outburst, they’re left alone by their fellow restaurant goers.

It was Yuuri’s idea to sneak out in the middle of the banquet to get traditional victory katsudon for Victor’s first gold. He sent Minako and Takeshi ahead to their agreed-upon restaurant while he and Phichit tried to smuggle Victor out; standing behind sponsors as Victor spoke with them, and making inconspicuous signals for Victor to excuse himself and head out.

They almost get caught on the way out, when one of the European sponsors corners Victor and tries to charm him into signing a contract with them. Chris, unexpectedly steps in and takes the bullet. And Yuuri sends him a grateful smile and makes a mental note to bring him something back from the restaurant.

Takeshi shrinks and offers apologetic smiles at the other patrons on behalf of their table. He turns to Minako for help but she’s proven herself useless, sparing a moment to contribute a chuckle to the conversation before she flags down a waiter to request five orders of katsudon.

Takeshi’s automatic Dad Mode kicks in. “Hey, hey—inside voices! You’re luck no-one’s recognized you weirdoes yet.” But he’s barely acknowledged by the three, almost frantic _world-class skaters_ who are too busy clutching each other and howling with laughter. Takeshi’s attempts to hush them continue to go ignored until: “If you guys get recognized, you’re gonna have a lot of explaining and apologizing to do to the Cup of China Banquet organizers and sponsors and others.”

“Aww, Takeshi, you’re no fun,” Phichit whines, but he quiets down anyway, wiping laugh-tears from his eyes as he sits up.

“Someone’s got to be the adult,” Takeshi says primly, straightening up in his chair. He holds the menu up like a newspaper and flips through it. The image is so stereotypically Father-at-the-Dining-Table, that Yuuri’s tempted to burst out laughing again.

“Yeah I wasn’t going to do it.” Minako reaches over to pout herself a cup of house tea.

“Takeshi’s right. We have about an hour until someone notices we’re not at the banquet.” Yuuri checks his phone for the time. There are maybe four texts from Chris, all whining about how he’s still stuck with the sponsor and suffering. Yuuri sends an absurd amount of emoji’s, and nothing else. Chris will be thanked with the gift of katsudon later. He sends one more message with the katsudon emoji and Chris replies with approximately sixty heart emoji’s.

The server finally arrives with the food, sliding steaming bowls of katsudon for everyone at the table. Victor huddles in closer to steal a piece of the gari garnish in Yuuri’s bowl. Before Victor can come for the rest, Yuuri snaps it up in his chopsticks and places it in Victor’s bowl, and takes a few onions as compensation.

Phichit groans, mouth full of food. “This. Foodgasm. In my mouth.”

He gets a muffled, but enthusiastic response from Takeshi. 

Victor’s quiet comment goes unnoticed to everyone but Yuuri. “It’s good. But not as good as okaasan’s katsudon.”

Yuuri smiles and hooks his ankle around Victor’s and slips his free arm around his waist. Minako catches the movement and she shares a look with Phichit, but they don’t say anything else. Victor doesn’t notice the exchange, and Yuuri just nods in silent confirmation when he catches their eyes and knowing smiles. Everyone opts to bask in comfortable silence while they enjoy the rest of the meal, and everything is relatively calm until—

“Alright, alright!” Victor chirps, clapping his hands together. “I think it’s time we sneak back into the banquet.” He jumps up to pay the bill and get the take-away katsudon for Chris.

“What’s this? Victor? Being the adult?” Takeshi jokes.

“Something’s missing from this picture.” Phichit. “Very O-O-C.”

“Ood?” Minako

“C. O-O-C. Out-of-character.” Takeshi

“I don’t even want to know how you kno—”

“I have three pre-pubescent daughters that may or may not like to talk about skater fanfiction they find on the internet.”

“Fanfiction—WHAT NOW,” says Yuuri, and he doesn’t get a response because apparently, figure skating fanfiction is not as big a thing as Yuuri feels it is.

Victor, who is already making his way out the door, turns around to wink. “Guys, come on! Can’t keep my fans waiting. I’m pretty sure they all want a photo with me and my _gold medal_!”

“Now _that’s_ more in-character,” Phichit nods, laughing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again and forever, a great big THANK YOU to Kiara, whose edits and comments keep me going ILY <3  
> Also, another big THANK YOU to stormiscoming (@ovictuuri on tumblr) for helping me make Victor's FS program components!
> 
> A whole bunch of things:  
> \- [CLICK THIS](http://sigh-haikyuu.tumblr.com/post/166078597313/a-thing-we-made-for-a-thing-i-made-a-massive) [OR THIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IvTMz_5qECk&t=17s) please. It's a gift for you. I, along with a group of artists, made it!!! FOR YOU! SO CLICK IT PLS.  
> \- Bad news--I'm afraid I might have to leave the story here. Full-blown chapters take a lot of time+effort I need for other things so yeah :(  
> \- Good news--You can still get your random Reverse AU needs in smaller doses over on tumblr! I have MANY stray fic paragraphs (scenes I wrote out for future chaps) and am willing to post them as ficlets and write more ficlets for this AU so don't be shy to hop on over to tumblr and bother me there. Find me @sigh-haikyuu :D (edit: plus, there's going to be an epilogue so yay)  
> \- For anyone who might be interested, here is Victor's full program:  
> 4Lo  
> 4T3T  
> StSq  
> FSSp  
> 4S  
> 3lo  
> 3A3T  
> 3A-lo-3S  
> Chsq  
> Spin  
> 3Lz  
> 3f  
> CoSp
> 
>  
> 
> I will be eternally grateful for all your support :) Your kudoseseses and super sweet+enthusiastic comments made my first fic experience a Really Fun Time <3 <3 Thank you for dropping by and I hope to see you around on the internetz
> 
> P.S. reminding you of the epilogue that WILL happen...eventually kthanksloveyoubye  
> P.P.S. chapter 1 was revamped on December-ish 2017, just in case you're interested


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